..•• 


* 


REVELATION 


REVELATION 


BY 

DULCIE  DEAMER 


f* 


BONI    and   LIVERIGHT 
Publishers       :       New  York 


REVELATION 

Cop's-*  :  by 

Bom  <&  LivnaoHTj  I 

I'nntcd  in  the  UniUd  States  of  America 


(All  rights  reserved) 


Loon 

£>3M3r 


CONTENTS 


PART  I 

PACB 

FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN 7 


PART  II 

"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"  99 


PART   III 
THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL,  AND  A  GARDEN        -     169 


2135152 


PART  I 
FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN 


REVELATION 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN 

The  time,  the  nineteenth  year  of  the  reign  of  Tiberius 
Caesar,  Master  of  the  World.  The  place,  Jerusalem, 
a  city  in  the  Roman  province  of  Palestine  adminis- 
tered by  Pontius  Pilate.  In  the  houses  the  women 
scold,  talk,  and  give  place  to  the  ensteeled  soldiers 
of  Rome.  Beggars  pester  for  alms,  blind  men 
whine,  lepers  rot  by  the  roadside,  children  play 
noisily  together,  men  who  pray  look  superciliously 
upon  those  who  do  not,  harlots  wait  in  their  houses, 
girls  envy  each  other  and  watch  young  men,  shep- 
herds, labourers,  smiths,  fishermen,  weavers,  tax- 
collectors,  potters,  and  money-changers  ply  their 
trades ;  and  the  son  of  a  Galiloean  carpenter,  who  is 
reputed  to  cure  sickness  and  teach  heresy,  goes 
from  village  to  village,  fed  by  charity,  and  followed 
by  a  few  fishers. 


The  hinged  palm-wood  shutter  of  the  square  window 
hung  open,  and  the  neutral  first-light,  mingling  with 
the  dusk  of  the  chamber,  leavened  it  increasingly. 
A  round,  flattish  basket  of  woven  grasses  sat  on 
the  matted  floor.  The  lid  of  the  basket  had  been 
set  on  it  unevenly,  and  at  the  chink  between  lid  and 
rim  something  moved.  It  was  the  diamond-shape 
head  of  a  serpent. 

9 


io  REVELATION 

There  was  the  faintest    craping  rustic.     The  -erpent, 
low  as  whipcord  and  green  a^  young  g: 
rain,  slid  from  the  basket.     It  moved  cur 
the  malting,  passed  athwart  a  rounded  outliung  arm, 
and  came  to  rest  upon  the  warm  bosom  ui   a  girl. 

The  girl  sighed.     A   slight  stretching   shudder   fli 
along  her  limbs.      She  crooked   th< 
hind  her  head.     She  yawned.     The  i- 
the  small  grass-green  I   flickered  like  a  point 

flame. 

The  girl's  eyes  opened. 

"Oh,  A  ten,"  si.  eepy  \ 

mer" 

She  sat  up,  placing  her  right  hand  o\<r  the  >nakc 
as  she  did  so.  Then  stretched  out  her  arm,  at>out 
which  it  had  twined  bi  hion. 

The  girl  was  of  mingled  I  .n  blood, 

and  had  seen  the  pa 

fore  she  was  a  woman.     Her  l  a 

magnolia  flower — a  warm  cream-white, 

,   with  smooth   and  subtir 
into   each   like   the  mi  flowing   honey.      Her 

low,  oval  bn  ugh   lull,  w<  1  linn.     Her 

red-golden  hair  resembled  the  tai: 
stallion  when  it  has  been  dyed  with  henna 
of   festival,  and  was  of  an  equally  handsome   length. 
Night  was  in  her  eyes — warm  night,  in  which 
the  melting  Syrian  moon,  the  Lady  of  Love. 

"Kiss  me!"  she  said  in  a  laughing  half-whisper,  and 
the   tiny,  cold   nui.  where   its  quick 

tongue  flickered,  touched  her  mouth. 

She  stood  up,  yawning,  stretching  with  wide-flu 

arms,  her  young,  unused  body  taut  as  the  cord  of  a 


REVELATION  i  i 

drawn  bow.  The  ends  of  her  unbound,  down-hanging 
hair  touched  her  heels. 

There  was  a  sound — half -sigh,  half -groan.  A  wom- 
an, sleeping  on  a  mattress  laid  alongside  that  from 
which  the  girl  had  risen,  turned  over  on  to  the  flat 
of  her  back. 

"Astarte!  Daughter  of  the  Devil,  what  are  you 
doing?  Is  one  to  be  permitted  no  sleep  at  all?  As 
soon  as  a  girl  turns  twelve  years  she's  as  fidgety  as 
a  cat  in  the  spring." 

She  heaved  herself  up  into  a  sitting  position,  sag- 
ging forward  slumped  shoulders,  her  feet  crossed,  her 
plump  knees  apart.  She  was  a  fleshy  woman  with 
the  short,  straight  features  of  a  beauty,  and  an  aging, 
yellowish  skin,  much  creased  at  the  neck.  Her  sulk} 
eyes  were  those  of  a  wanton.  They  were  darkened 
with  kohl  in  such  a  manner  that  it  seemed  as  though 
a  soot-smudge  surrounded  each,  and  her  chin  was  tat- 
tooed— a  beauty-mark. 

"My  mother,  it  is  morning,"  said  the  girl,  Astarte, 
who  stood  now  with  hands  locked  behind  her  uptilted 
head. 

The  chamber  had  lightened,  and  a  little  silver  stat- 
uette of  the  composite  Diana  of  Ephesus  glimmered 
dully  in  a  niche. 

"Oh — morning  is  it?  My  head  aches.  ...  I  feel 
old — as  old  as  though  I'd  borne  and  suckled  you  my- 
self in  very  truth.  ...  I  hate  this  town — it  sickens 
me  like  a  sepulchre.  It  stinks  worse  than  Sidon,  and 
the  men  are  like  hired  mourners  at  a  funeral — all  of 
them !  .  .  .  When  Bel-Namri  said  to  me,  Tn  five  days 
we  go  up  to  Jerusalem,'  my  stomach  turned  as  though 
I  had  eaten  sour  curds." 

She  shut  her  mouth  with  a  snap.     Her  eyes  criti- 


12  REVELATION 

cised  the  girl — an  expert,  appraising  scrutiny. 

"Come  here  to  me,  child." 

Astarte  moved  to  her,  looking  down 

"Child  did  i  call  you?  a're   i 

than  1  am  these  days.    A  piece  oi  perfc 
pearl!    A  sweet  almond   to   be   cracked  between 
man's  teeth!" 

She  pulled  the  girl  down   beside  her. 

Astarte,  crouching  on  her  heels,  a,  en- 

dure passively,   with  drooping   shoulders. 

"Vou"ll    letch    a   priee,   my    beaut)  . 
kept  you  carefully.     No  man  has  laid  so  much 
the  tip  of  his  linger  on  \  ou  since  you  readied  eight 
years  of  age     You're  as  ignorant  of  ti.  of 

a  city  as  a  babe,  and  1  :  I   have  trained  you 

everything.     Stand  up  now    and  postu.  ie — 

it  is  good   to  practise    when   the   muscles 
from  sleep." 

Still   passive,    the   girl    ruse.    1  he  I    woman 

reached    up   and   patted    her — much    as    one   patl    a 

favourite,  eleg..  haped  animal. 

"There  1      Posture     for    me,    there's    a    darl. 
.  .  .  You  fill  the  eyes  like  a  goddc  .d  and 

ivory." 

Astarte  sighed,  straightened  her  back,  and  moved 
languidly   into  the  cent  I    the  chamber. 

The  sun   .  e  the  hoi:  w.     Me: 

objects    caught    lire,    and    colours    were    revivified. 
The  multiple   breasts   of   the   Ephesian   Diana  g 
tened    like    clustered    silver    I  The    patterned 

red  and  black  of   the   round   snake-basket   * 
arresting    as    a    spoken    word,    and    light    filtei     I 
through  the  large  red  carnehan  that  rested  on  the 
bosom  oi  the  elder  woman. 


REVELATION  13 

Astarte's  arms  were  at  her  sides,  her  down- 
turned  palms  very  stiffly  at  right  angles  to  them. 
A  sort  of  shudder  went  over  her,  and  then  the 
wonderful  play  of  the  muscles  began.  Every  inch 
of  the  girl's  body  seemed  to  vibrate  with  life.  It 
was  marvellous,  alluring — a  wonder  and  an  excita- 
tion. 

"Now — the  stomach  dance.  As  I  showed  you 
yesterday." 

The  voice  held  something  of  the  sharp  staccato 
of  the  beast  trainer.  The  even  breathing  of  the 
girl,  standing  relaxed,  was  audible  in  the  quiet  of 
the  chamber.  It  seemed  a  place  apart — as  far  re- 
moved from  the  workaday  wholesomeness  of  life 
as  a  potted  iris  set  in  the  corner  of  a  harlot's  dark- 
ened room  is  distant  from  a  similar  iris  flowering 
by  a  pool  where  the  village  women  wash  their  gar- 
ments, chattering  shrilly  as  they  kneel  in  the  mud. 

"Oh,  my  mother — I  am  tired.  ...  It  is  an  ugly 
dance.' 

"What What?  Am  I  deaf?  Be  quick!  Dance 

for  me — and  keep  your  mouth  shut,  or  I'll  teach 
you  to  open  it  wider  than  you  wish !" 

There  was  no  answer.  The  girl  stood  like  a 
planted  post,  her  head  inclined,  her  eyes  veiled. 

"Dance !"  screamed  the  woman.  "Dance,  you 
daughter  of  perdition!  Your  father  was  a  devil, 
your  mother  was " 

Astarte  whipped  round,  facing  her.  Her  teeth 
were  bared  like  an  animal's,  her  eyes  had  widened 
with  the  reckless  fury  of  a  Maenad's. 

"Be  silent !  ...  or  I'll  kill  you !  May  your  father's 
grave  be  dishonoured !     May  you  be  smitten  with 


i4  REVELATION 

lerosy  !     May  the  dogs  devour  you!     I  hate  you — I 

spit  on  you  I" 
Iler  voice  rose  a-  shrilly  as  the  othei 
There  wa    a  breath!  pau 

An   inarticulate,   strangling   sound   of   ra.  nc 

from    the    woman.      With    a    sudden    mo  t — 

wonderfully   quick   for   one   of   her  bulk — 
right   up. 

"Your  mother  was  a  harlot!  rl, 

and  even  as  Che  ith  she 

turned  and  fled, 
ducked  t< 

ut  l*er 
ears  like  irrn  of  d 

an  extcr: 

<  hamber  to  the  fi  irt. 

This   ourt    i  i ill    in   cold    sha  A    hunting' 

leopard.  t\\  o-thirds  gTOW  n, 

to  a  staple.     I  l>"h   upi  like  a 

chained  d<  »g.     There  W  ei 

live  I  jiarr.  r  l"ur 

fragile -1(  ■ 

frighteni  de] 

hung  with  a  striped  woollen  curtain. 

Astarte  made  straight  for  thi  -way.  Her  feet 

were   stained    with    the   unclean    moisture 
court,  that   smelt   as  musl 
plunged  past  the  curtail  fell  with 

the    arms    of    an    old    ne  -a    shrunken    1 

lxmcs  hung  with  half  en  necklace 

bea 

"Dido — she  is  furious!    She  cast  a  slipper 
and  would  have  whipped  me.  ...     I  hate  her!     I 
wish    I   could  kill  her!"' 


REVELATION  1 5 

"Oh,  hush!  oh,  hush!  .  .  .  She  shall  not  whip 
my  princess — my  lady  of  beauty — Dido  will  not  let 
her." 

With  skinny  hands  she  put  a  blanket  of  camel's 
hair  about  the  naked  girl.  The  lobes  of  her  ears 
were  drawn  right  down  by  the  weight  of  many 
tarnished  ear-ornaments.  She  had  the  face  of  an 
old  monkey,  but  the  eyes  were  human,  and  they 
were  the  windows  of  a  soul  that  had  suffered. 

Astarte  crouched  down  at  the  knees  of  the  old 
woman. 

"Oh,  Dido— I  hate  her  so!" 

Her  teeth  gritted,  and  a  shiver  went  through  her. 

"If  they  would  only  sell  me!  .  .  .  She  spoke  this 
morning  of  what  I  was  worth.  They  are  keeping 
me  for  a  price.  .  .  .  Day  after  day  I  offer  a  date  or 
fig  and  a  spoonful  of  wine  to  the  silver  goddess, 
but  she  does  nothing  for  me.  I  do  not  believe  that 
there  are  any  gods,  Dido.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  wish  they 
would  sell  me !" 

She  rose  up,  clad  in  the  blanket  of  camel's  hair, 
and  crossed  daintily  to  where  the  cheetah  was 
chained.  Putting  her  arms  about  it  she  fondled  it, 
kissing  the  space  between  its  small  round  ears. 

"Presently  they  will  sell  you,"  she  said,  "and  the 
gazelles,  and  the  peacocks,  and  the  doves.  But  I 
shall  remain — I  am  always  left." 

She  stood  up,  and  the  camel's  hair  covering 
slipped  from  her  shoulders.  She  resembled  a  tiger- 
lily  breaking  from  a  dark  sheath,  every  fibre  of  her 
thirsty  for  life  as  an  unfurled  flower  for  rain. 

"Dido,  I  want  to  see  fine  marble  houses,  and 
streets  full  of  people,  and  all  the  things  they  sell 
in  the   streets.     I  want  to  stain  my  fingers  with 


i6  REVELATION 

henna,  and  have  a  lapful  of  gold  and  silver  orna- 
ments— and  see  wrestling  bouts,  and  beast  fights, 
and  a  chariot  race.  I  want  to  talk  to  girls,  and 
dance  before  great  men  in  a  wonderful  room  with 
a  vermilion  ceiling  and  a  marble  floor  that  looks  like 
running  water.  I  want  to  smell  roses,  and  hear 
harp  music,  and  taste  wine  with  honey  in  it.  .  .  .'* 

Her  head  was  tilted  a  little  back.  The  whole 
pose  of  her  eager,  breathing  body  was  that  of  one 
whose  mouth  is  about  to  be  kissed. 

II 

The  morning  whose  neutral  first  light  had  leavened 
the  dusk  of  the  chamber  where  was  enshrined  the 
Ephesian  Diana  was  now  hued  as  tenderly  as  a 
pink  sea-shell  drawn  from  the  blue  Mediterranean. 
The  air  was  as  fresh  as  the  water  that  gushed  when 
Moses  struck  the  rock,  and  upon  many  housetops 
just-risen  women  sat  opposite  to  each  other  grind- 
ing corn. 

Under  the  fugitive  pink  and  saffron  of  the  sun- 
rise a  young  man  standing  upon  a  roof  where  he 
had  passed  the  night  recited  the  prescribed  prayers 
that  were  his  racial  heritage.  Upon  his  forehead 
was  bound  a  tiny  square  parchment  box,  no  larger 
than  an  amulet.  It  contained  a  folded  strip  of 
vellum,  upon  which  was  minute  writing:  "Hear,  O 
Israel:  The  Lord  thy  God  is  one  Lord:  And  thou 
shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God  with  all  thy  heart,  and 
with  all  thy  soul,  and  with  all  thy  might.  .  .  ." 

As  he  prayed  his  left  arm  was  outstretched,  and 
with  his  right  hand  he  bound  it  about  with  thongs 
of  leather.  And  the  manner  of  this  binding  re- 
vealed the  word  Shaddai,  which  is,  in  Hebrew, 
Almighty. 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  17 

Thirteen  hundred  years  before,  the  words  that 
were  written  upon  the  strip  of  vellum  had  been 
delivered  to  the  forefathers  of  this  young  man  in 
the  stark  and  terrible,  waterless  country  about 
Mount  Sinai,  a  mountain  of  Arabia.  They  had  been 
delivered  by  a  man  named  Moses  while  thunder 
darkened  the  brows  of  the  mountain  and  intermit- 
tent lightning  flickered,  and  the  men  and  women 
who  listened — a  horde  of  nomad  Arab  blood,  wear- 
ing the  golden  armlets  of  Egypt — had  fallen  upon 
their  faces  as  the  dry  thunder  rolled  among  the 
peaks.  .  .  . 

The  young  man  who  prayed  was  not  less  than 
seventeen,  perhaps  eighteen  years  of  age.  He  was 
tall,  straight  as  a  palm,  and  would  have  stripped 
for  a  wrestling  match  as  creditably  as  a  trained 
Greek  athlete.  His  face  was  beautiful,  with  that 
fine,  Semitic  beauty  that  seems,  as  it  were,  steeped 
to  the  lips  in  subtle,  incommunicable  melancholy 
and  in  the  dignity  of  an  exiled  king — burdened  with 
a  thousand  years  of  dreams  and  desert  thought,  yet 
lit  with  smouldering  fires.  A  white  cloth  covered 
his  head  as  he  prayed.  On  one  side  was  the  rolled- 
up  mattress  he  had  slept  upon. 

A  cry  of  trumpets  rang  out  across  the  quicken- 
ing hill  city — the  trumpets  of  the  Roman  garrison. 

The  prayer  ended.  The  roof  on  which  the  young 
.man  had  stood,  and  whose  level  was  broken  by  the 
round  blister  of  a  low  dome,  was  empty.  .  .  . 

Below,  in  the  slimy  house-court  that  was  com- 
mon to  half  a  dozen  families,  and  down  whose 
centre  ran  a  stream  of  liquid  filth,  three  women 
were  talking.  Beyond  a  low-browed  stone  arch, 
like  a  short  tunnel,  the  traffic  of  a  street,  narrow 


18  REVELATION 

and  deep  as  a  torrent-channel,  passed  and  repassed. 

"When  he  was  no  higher  than  my  hip  he  could 
quote  Scripture  like  a  Rabbi.  It  would  have  brought 
the  tears  to  your  eyes  to  hear  him !  Such  a  dot  as 
he  was,  with  a  head  of  curly  hair  as  black  a 
goat's.  The  prettiest  boy  you  ever  saw,  though 
I'm  his  mother  that  says  so." 

It  was  the  eldest  woman  speaking,  shrivelled 
somewhat,  and  very  yellow,  with  the  narrow  fore- 
head of  a  congenital  fool.  Crescent-shaped  and 
circular  bits  of  metal,  strung  together,  hung  down 
on  each  side  of  her  face. 

The  woman  to  whom  she  spoke  nodded  her  head. 
She  was  young,  and  regarded  life  with  eyes  that 
were  like  those  of  a  sick  marc,  standing  stolidly  on 
flat,  brown  feet. 

"And  such  a  figure  of  a  man  !"  went  on  the  other. 
"Is  it  not  so,  Dinah?  Manv's  the  time  I  say  to 
myself:  'The  girl  that  calls  him  husband  will  be  a 
lucky  one!'  There's  mighty  few  girls  in  Jerusalem 
good  enough  for  him,  Dinah.  ...  His  father  was 
fit  to  sit  with  any  of  them.  Id  have  had 

his  seat  in  the  Sanhedrin  if  right  were  right.  A 
man  of  family — none  better  born  in  all  Judaea. 
If  it  hadn't  been  that  he  was  taken  with  a 
dropsy  when  my  David  was  scarce  weaned,  sweet 
lamb !  .   .  .  " 

"Yes  .  .  .,"  said  Dinah.  And  then,  with  extreme 
and  sudden  sharpness:  "Rama!  Fetch  Tobias  back 
— he's  in  the  street !  .  .   .     Tobias!" 

Under  the  arch  a  toddler  of  perhaps  two  years, 
wearing  a  short  yellow  shirt,  had  been  playing, 
poking  about  in  a  slush  of  semi-liquid  refuse  with 
a  stick.     Now  he  had  dropped  the  stick  and  was 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  19 

standing  at  the  edge  of  the  traffic-channel.  Asses 
with  drooping  heads,  and  carrying  mountainous 
bulging  sacks  balanced  across  their  backs,  passed 
by,  their  hoofs  slipping  on  the  cobble-stones. 

Rama,  a  girl  of  thirteen,  with  sad,  doe-like  eyes, 
darted  forward,  seized  the  toddler,  and  bore  him 
back  to  his  mother  astride  of  her  slight  hip.  His 
cherub  face  was  unwholesomely  pallid,  very  dirty, 
and  a  resting-place  for  flies. 

"The  little  darling!"  said  the  eldest  woman. 
"What  a  blessing  you  have  there,  Dinah." 

A  two-leaved  door  at  the  head  of  a  flight  of 
steps,  protected  by  a  crazy  wooden  balustrade, 
opened,  and  the  young  man  who  had  recited  the 
morning  prayer  upon  the  housetop  came  out. 

The  two  women  and  the  girl  with  the  unsavoury 
child  athwart  her  hip  regarded  him.  He  went  down 
the  steps  without  seeing  them,  moving  with  a  cer- 
tain innate,  unconscious  dignity  and  aloofness.  He 
had  upon  him  a  knee-length  tunic,  girt  about  his 
middle  with  a  belt  of  leather,  and  lying  open  from 
the  throat  almost  to  the  belt.  Upon  his  feet  were 
sandals,  and  his  head  was  uncovered.  Still  igno- 
rant of  the  three  who  watched  him,  he  passed  to  a 
doorway  masked  by  a  ragged  curtain  of  dark  stuff, 
and  entered. 

"There  he  goes !"  said  Naomi,  her  face  wrinkled 
with  maternal  pride,  her  eyes  glittering  like  black 
beads.  "My  David!  Handsome  as  Absalom,  and 
the  best  son  a  mother  ever  had.  .  .  .  The  way  the 
girls  watch  him,  Dinah — the  hussies !  But  he  pays 
no  more  attention  to  them  than  if  they  were  a  row 
of  stones.  ...  I  hope  he  makes  his  choice  soon — 
I'm  not  getting  younger,  and  I  pray  morning  and 


20  REVELATION 

evening  that  I  may  see  my  grandchildren.  ...  A 
queen's  daughter  would  not  be  too  good  for  him, 
but  if  he  brings  me  a  decent,  obedient  girl  of  an 
honest  family  who  can  cook  and  sweep  and  doesn't 
sulk  when  she's  spoken  to  I  won't  complain." 

There    was    a    pause.      Tobias,    still    astride 
Rama's  hip,  began  to  squirm  like  a  puppy,  whining 
to  be  set  down.     The  girl  humoured  him,  put: 
him  upon  his  feet,  and  then  squatted  down  by  him, 
talking  to  him  and  rallying  him  with  laughter  like 
a  mother  of  ten  years'  experience. 

"Rama's  a  good  girl,"  said  Dinah,  without  appar- 
ent reference  to  anything  that  had  been  said.  "She's 
as  sensible  as  a  grandmother.  She  bakes  bread 
better  than  I  do — I'll  bring  you  a  loaf.  .  .  .  Yes- 
terday we  had  a  dish  of  :id  raisins  steeped 
in  vinegar,  and  my  man  said  it  was  the  best  he'd 
ever  tasted.  .  .  .  She  doesn't  wa  •  much  i 
pinch  of  flour  or  a  di           oil  either 

Xaomi  made  a  clicking  sound  with  her   I    i  _;ue 
— a  wordless  expre  amiable  assent. 

"She'll  ma!  <■  man  a  fine  wif  id  Dinah 

in  a  dreary  voice.  "I  shall  miss  her:  my  mother 
bore  only  she  and  I.  But  she's  ripe  already  for  a 
son  of  her  own." 

There  was  a  silence.     Each  understood  the  other, 
but  nothing  further  v.  d.     The  girl.  Rama,  had 

risen  and  stood  with  lax-hanging  hands,  her  c 
Still  on  Tobias.     To  bear  such  children  was  her  ap- 
pointed destiny.     She   waited,  passive,   dutiful,   re- 
ceptive.   At  the  rear  of  the  house-court  a  cluster 
three  and  four  year  olds  were  playing  at  marriag 

In  the  darkened  den  of  a  room  that  was  masked 
by  the  ragged  curtain  David,  the  son  of  Naomi,  the 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  21 

widow  of  a  ne'er-do-well  in  whose  veins  had  run 
the  coveted  blood  of  David,  the  poet-king,  sat  on 
the  edge  of  a  raised  floor  that  ran  the  length  of 
the  wall  and  was  laid  with  a  couple  of  frayed  mat- 
tresses. His  strong  and  supple  body  was  bent  for- 
ward, his  hands  were  clasped  between  his  knees,  his 
eyes  and  the  fine  line  of  his  mouth  were  those  of  a 
visionary,  for  he  was  gazing  with  all  his  soul  upon 
a  picture  of  the  mind  that  was  dearer  to  him  than 
the  hot  breath  of  life.  .  .  .  He  saw,  as  from  the 
summit  of  a  high  mountain,  the  country  of  his  peo- 
ple— Judaea,  Galilee,  Samaria — now  the  subjugated 
province  of  an  Empire,  governed  by  its  conquerors. 
The  wonderful,  enduring  roads  of  Rome,  undeviat- 
ing  as  the  flight  of  an  arrow,  traversed  it  from 
north  to  south.  The  collectors  of  the  Roman  taxes 
sat  in  its  gates,  the  coinage  of  its  tribute,  stamped 
with  the  image  of  Tiberius  Caesar,  passed  famili- 
arly from  hand  to  hand.  The  people  had  bread,  and 
wine,  and  oil,  but  liberty  had  departed  from  them 
like  a  raven  to  a  hilltop ;  the  promises  uttered  to 
their  fathers  by  a  line  of  fierce  and  splendid 
prophets  had  been  made  void,  and  the  glory  of  their 
God  had  passed  like  golden  light  from  a  long 
cloud.  .  .  . 

The  mind  picture  changed.  To  the  watcher  upon 
the  summit  of  the  high  mountain  the  swarms  of 
men  choking  the  formal  channels  of  life  in  the 
cities  and  villages  below  seethed  suddenly  like  an- 
gel-troubled waters.  There  was  the  flash  of  swords, 
the  windy  wailing  of  sacred  ram's-horn  trumpets, 
the  mighty  effort  of  a  manacled  nation  that  in  one 
strong  convulsion  bursts  its  bonds.  .  .  .  Again  the 
mind  picture  changed.     Jerusalem,  the  gray  city, 


22  REVELATION 

situate  on  the  clenched  fist  of  a  mountain  height, 
rang  with  the  mellow  clash  of  cymbals.    Its  streets 
were  strewn  with  palm  branches  ;  the  trumpets  of 
the  priests  cried  like  the  strange  voices  of  angels; 
smoke  sweetened  with  incense  and  the  fat  savour 
of  the  roast  flesh  of  rams  and  bullocks  rose  lik 
pillar  from  the  great  altar  in  the  court  of  the  tem- 
ple of  God.     The  golden  eagle  standards  me 
were  prostrate,  for  the  Messiah,  the  Deliverer,  the 
Desire  of  the  Everlasting  Hills  had  come,  and  an 
empire  mightier  than   that   of   Solomon,   the   L 
of  Wisdom,  was  the  portion  of  Israel,  and  the  veiled 
words    of    the    prophets    were    fulfill-           Endless 
strings    of    dromedaries    from    the    farth<            ist, 
bearing  the  gifts  of  kings  and  of  the  sons  of  kings, 
choked  the  narrow  g;              the  city,  and  the  daugh- 
ters of  the  city  cast  roses  from  the  housetops  into 
the   way  before   them.     The   Deliverer   sat   in   the 
gate  of  the  Temple;  and  He  was  a  conquerer.  and  a 
judge,  and  a  young  king  mightier  than  Solomon. 
Incense  rose  about  Him.  and  the  hot  blood  of  heif- 
ers was  sprinkled.     And  David,  the  son  of  Naomi, 
the  widow,  standing-  with  a  thousand  others  who 
had    fought    for    the    kingdom    of    God.    raised   his 
sword — smoking  with  the  blood  of  the  Roman — in 
acclamation  and  passionate  allegiance,  while  music 
rent  the  heavens  and  the  roses  rained.  .   .   . 

"Oh.  what  a  world!  I'm  full  of  rheumatism  this 
morning,  but  that's  the  spring.  .  .  .  Jonah's  uncle 
is  bad  with  boils.  David.  Dinah  told  me  of  it.  If  it 
isn't  one  thing  it's  another.  ..." 

Glory  and  valour  and  worship  broke  like  a  mist 
and  vanished.  There  was  a  rattle  of  metal  ware. 
The  widow  stooped  over  the  hearth,  where  some 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  23 

coals  glowed,  and  her  unmodulated  voice  was 
pitched  in  its  usual  complaining  key.  The  mat- 
tresses upon  the  raised  floor  were  worn  so  thin 
that  the  stuffing  was  visible.  A  row  of  broken 
earthen  jars  crowded  a  shelf,  and  the  gritty  stone 
flags  had  not  yet  been  swept.  But  the  inner  flame 
of  David's  faith  remained  unshaken.  He  had  never 
handled  a  sword  or  felt  the  weight  of  steel  harness, 
but  his  boy's  spirit  was  that  of  a  warrior,  ardent 
as  a  bridegroom — self-dedicated  to  the  cause  of 
Israel  and  of  the  Deliverer,  who  must  surely  come. 
This  was  his  dearest  dream,  the  secret  garden  of 
Jiis  soul.  He  saw  himself  a  captain  clothed  in  the 
armour  of  God,  fighting  lion-like.  .  .  . 

"Did  you  hear,  David?  Jonah's  uncle  is  bad  with 
boils,  poor  man." 

"Yes,  mother." 

He  stood  up,  still  a  trifle  abstracted. 

"Eh,  dear !  no  oil  in  the  jar.  .  .  .  Dinah's  young 
sister,  Rama,  is  a  good  girl,  and  as  quiet  as  a  mouse. 
She  can  cook,  too,  and  she's  as  pretty  as  any  girl 
needs  to  be." 

"Yes,  mother." 

"David,  my  jewel,  you're  a  man  now.  It's  time 
you  brought  me  a  daughter.  Leave  it  to  me,  and 
I'll  find  you  a  girl  who'll  make  you  as  good  a  wife 
as  any  in  Jerusalem." 

"Mother— not  yet." 

It  was  useless  to  utter  anything  further;  she 
would  not  have  understood.  He  desired  no  woman. 
He  had  set  all  things  aside  from  him,  seeking  to 
remain  immaculate  as  a  stripped  sword  ready  at 
any  instant  for  the  service  of  which  he  dreamed. 
Marriage  meant  a  girl  whose  mind  was  divided  be- 


24  REVELATION 

tween  the  food  vendors'  1  and  the  worne 

gallery  at  the  Synagogue;  who  would  prepare  vari- 
ous dishes  over  the  fire  of  coals,  and  wl 
petual  presence  would  invade  even  his  sle 

"Oh,  there  you  go  again!    Obstinate  as  Balaam's 
.    .    .    .    Do   you    want   your   father's    name 
perish?     Rizpah  has  twin  grandsons  already  — 
her  son  your  elder  only  by  a  year.  .    .    .   David,  my 
el,  listen  to  your  mother." 

David's  mouth,  firm,  yet  sensitive  as  a  woman1 
in  whose  clean  lines  were  united  th<  .  the  man 

and  the  idealist,  remain-  i  <!.     A  -light  furr 

was  visible  between   his   bf  which  he  had  un- 

consciously drawn  together.  Still  silent,  he  turned 
from    his    mother,    raised    the    r;.  curtain    and 

passed  out.  .   .   . 

A  crazy   projecting   window   of   weather-stained 
wooden  lattice-work  overhung  the  ! 
hinged  pane  w  n,  and  the  apcrtu  med  a 

face,  shadowed,  soft,  indefinably  pathetic.     It  v 
Rama,  the  thirteen-year-old  sister  of  Dinah.     Her 
lustreless    black    hair    hung  list    her    oval    olive 

cheeks.  In  the  half-dark  room  behind  her  Dinah 
was   scolding  Tobias.      She   knelt,   li  g    thro-,: 

the  opening,  though  there  was  nothing  I  seen. 

A  ragged  curtain  was  raised  and  David  came  out 
into  the  house-court.  Without  turning  his  head,  he 
crossed  to  the  arch  that  gave  upon  thi  ind 

disappeared.    The  eves  of  the  girl  who  I  I  down 

from  the  hanging  window  had  followed  him.  She 
remained  kneeling,  looking  at  vacancy.  .  .  .  The 
discoloured  stone  walls  melted.  She  saw  a  cluster 
of  young  virgin  girls  carrying  little  bridal  lamps 
and  with  branches  of  myrtle  in  their  hands ;  and  a 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  25 

figure  like  herself,  crowned  with  gilded  myrtle 
leaves,  was  in  the  midst  of  them,  enshrouded  in  a 
milk-white  veil  whose  ends  touched  the  ground; 
and  it  was  evening — the  threshold  of  a  night  more 
wonderful  than  a  miracle.  .    .   . 

"Rama— Rama !" 

The  voice  was  Dinah's. 

"Yes! — I  am  coming.  ..."  Rama  withdrew 
quickly  from  the  hanging  window.  There  was 
soiled  clothing  to  be  washed,  and  the  day's  corn 
to  be  ground,  and  Tobias  had  fallen  down  three 
steps  and  was  wailing  as  though  he  had  been  half 
killed.  .    .    . 

Meanwhile  David  was  taking  his  way  through 
the  bazaar  quarter.  Stray  fingers  of  sunlight 
touched  the  dark  green  rinds  of  cucumbers  and 
gourds.  Grain  sellers  sat  in  semi-obscurity  behind 
their  heaps  of  corn,  a  round  sieve  hanging  within 
reach.  There  was  an  odour  of  sandalwood,  green 
vegetables,  and  fermenting  refuse.  Men  passed 
astride  of  small,  burdened  asses,  their  bare,  cal- 
loused feet  almost  touching  the  damp  cobblestones. 
Other  men  bore  upon  their  backs  unsightly  goat- 
skins, distended  with  water,  which  they  sold  to  the 
thirsty.  Tattered  awnings,  scarlet,  russet,  or  dark 
blue,  protected  the  open-fronted  shop  niches, 
though  the  bales  of  a  passing  camel  almost  brushed 
the  opposite  sides  of  the  sunless  street-passage. 
Here  and  there  the  way  was  solidly  roofed  over 
and  became  a  tunnel  of  partial  darkness  for  twelve 
or  fifteen  paces. 

As  he  went  the  young  man  was  now  in  pungent 
shadow,  now  in  rare  sunlight.  He  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  those  who  bought  and  sold,  or  to  the  clat- 


26  REV  LIGATION 

clat  of  ass  hooves,  the  whine  of  cripples,  the  sing- 
song minor  melody  of  a  young  Syrian  with  a  sprig 
of  orange  blossom  behind  his  ear.  lie  carried  him- 
self like  an  equal  of  kings,  his  handsome  head 
clean-cut  as  a  profile  on  a  Greek  gem;  the  skin 
clear  olive,  the  hair  cut  i  ide 

in  Roman  fashion,  thick  and  n<  Mack. 

Girls    shrouded    in    white    or    dark    blue    drap<. 
glanced  at  him,  turned   their  heads,  and 
him  with  their  eyes.     But  David  regarded  women 
with  a  mixture  of  ignorance,  awe  and  also  a  spe< 
of  detached,  in.  oal  contempt.     They   were  at 

on<  e  a  mystery,  a  I  mental  cmj 

s.     He  kept  care  full)  i — aln 

angrily  aloof  at  times  when  a  certain  quickening  of 
the  blood  shamed  and  harassed  him.  H<-  had  never 
even  so  much  as   laid   his   hand  upon  1    in  a 

caress.    The  ardent  spirit  d!  him  was 
and  impatiently  set  upon  other  ma 

The  whinii  e  of  the  young  Syrian  au- 

dible above  the  clatter  of  tongues  and  ho 

s    of    love,    naked    and    ui 
sweeter  than  honey,  and  fulfilled  desire.    The 
stank  like  a  midden,  though  the  perfume  of  orar. 
tlower  water  touched  the  nostrils.     A  v. 
ing   girl,    peering    through    a    high- 
spoke  over  her  bare  shoulder  to  anoth< 

"Oh!  What  a  handsome  fellow!  Look.  Zillah — 
quick!  I'd  love  to  kiss  him — he's  so  serious!  .  .  . 
He  won't  look  up." 

Where  the  street  was  intersected  by  another  an 
elderly  man  of  the  strict  sect  of  the  Pharisees  stood 
at  the  street  corner  praying  rously  aloud.  The 

ends  of  the  fringed  prayer-shawl  that  covered  bis 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  27 

head  fell  to  the  hem  of  his  long-  garment.  To  these 
ends  were  sewn  wide  strips  of  parchment  display- 
ing texts  from  the  sacred  Hebrew  writings.  As  he 
prayed  he  seemed — with  the  narrow  white  beard 
hanging  nearly  to  his  middle — endowed  with  the 
saturnine  superciliousness  of  an  old  he-goat.  The 
passing  Jews  regarded  him  with  respect,  and  a 
child  or  two  stared  solemnly.  But  David's  eyes 
avoided  him.  In  the  abstract  he  was  a  Jew  of 
Jews,  living  in  the  past  and  in  the  future  of  his 
race,  praying  daily  with  an  ardour  that  was  pas- 
sionate— almost  pitiful — but  in  the  concrete  the 
people  of  his  race,  as  he  saw  them  from  day  to  day, 
were  an  exasperation  and  a  thorn  in  his  flesh.  In 
a  sort  of  angry  defiance — the  defiance  of  a  boy  who 
was  very  much  in  earnest — he  had  adopted  the 
dress  of  the  Gentile  Greeks  who  swarmed  in  the 
city,  and  went  with  his  head  uncovered,  save  at  the 
times  of  prayer. 

He  entered  an  open  market.  A  covered  colon- 
nade in  the  Greek  style  closed  one  side  of  it.  Be- 
tween two  of  the  cream  marble  Corinthian  col- 
umns, on  the  second  of  the  three  shallow  steps  that 
led  up  to  it  from  the  market,  sat  a  young  man  in  a 
dark  tunic,  shod  with  dilapidated  sandals  that  had 
been  mended  with  string.  One  leg  was  thrust  out 
before  him,  the  other  was  drawn  up  so  that  he 
rested  his  elbow  on  his  knee  and  his  chin  on  his 
palm.  He  was  a  Greek.  His  light,  close-cut  hair 
had  a  thick,  hyacinthine  wave  in  it.  His  eyes — 
brilliant  as  the  eyes  of  one  with  fever — were  sap- 
phire blue. 

David  crossed  the  market  to  the  colonnade.    The 


28  REVELATION' 

young-  fellow  sitting  at  ease  upon   the   steps   k 
him  and  stood  up. 

"David!"  he  said. 

"Cymon  !"  said  David. 

"I've  been  here  more  than  an  hour  .    .    .  watchr 
the  faces.     It  won't  buy  bread  and  olives,  but    it's 
instructive.    You're  late. ' 

"Yes  .    .    .  my  mother  spoke  to  me  this  morning. 
She  wants  me   ...  to  choose  a  wif< 

He  paused,  and  then  spoke  rapidly: 

"She    can't    understand — none    <»f    them    under- 
stand, Cymon!    There  are  worthier  things  than  the 
begetting  of  children    .    .    .   Look  at  all  these — 1< 
at   them!" — he    made   a   quick    gesture   towards   the 
if  buyers  and   Bellers — "''  t   and  drink 

and  trade,  take  virgins  in  marriage  and  1" 
sacrifice  according  to  the   Law.   and   recite   certain 
formula-  every  time  they  wash  their  m 
their  nails.  .   .   .      Then  they  die.    They're  a  flocl 
goats,  going  where  they're  led  or  driven,  and  pulling 
grass   by  the  way.    ...      I  cannol  id   and 

content  myself.     T  thirst.  ..." 

He  broke  off.     Regarding  his  dream  and  purpose 
he  had  opened  his  lips  to  neither  man  nor  woman. 

Cymon  was  leaning  against   the  marble   column. 
whose  capital   imitated  curled  acanthus   leaves. 

"Oh.  they'll  pester  you  to  marry."  he  said. 
"Women's  minds  are  set  on  nothing  save  begetting 
and  bearing.  They're  animals — just  animals.  .  .  . 
But  a  bitch  is  faithful  and  a  woman  isn't.  I  made 
a  fool  of  myself  over  a  girl  once."  He  sp 
though  he  had  seen  half  a  century.  "It  was  at 
Tyre.  I  met  her  in  the  market.  ...  I  gave  her 
all  I  had — I'd  been  working  for  three  months  with 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  29 

a  silversmith — every  coin  of  it.  ...  I  was  in  Ely- 
sium. We  were  god  and  goddess.  I  lay  with  m\ 
head  on  her  breast  and  watched  the  full  moon  ris- 
ing over  myrtles.  Our  love  was  immortal — I  felt 
that  it  would  outlast  our  lives.  .  .  .  Next  day  I 
found  that  she  was  a  girl  of  the  temple  of  Ashotreth 
— common  property.  ...  I  wasn't  the  first  she'd 
fleeced  that  way,  either.  ...  I  haven't  touched  a 
woman  since.  Even  if  they  don't  rob  you,  they  de- 
grade a  man  L" 

His  boyish  jaw  was  rather  more  angular  than  it 
should  have  been  from  hardship  and  lean  days.  The 
nails  of  his  tapering,  nervous  fingers  were  un- 
trimmed  and  black,  and  the  set  of  his  mouth  very 
bitter. 

David  remained  silent  for  about  a  minute.  His 
nostrils  had  dilated  when  Cymon  spoke  of  the  tem- 
ple girl.  .  .  .  Habitually  he  was  reserved  almost  to 
taciturnity,  carrying  an  unconscious  dignity  as  a 
king's  stallion  carries  gold  trappings.  He  was 
vaguely  ashamed  already  that  he  had  spoken  so 
openly  to  Cymon.  In  general  he  was  the  listener 
while  the  other  spoke.  They  had  been  friends  for 
some  months.  Deliberately  he  had  chosen  the 
Greek,  for  Cymon  was  touched  with  a  rare  fire  of 
the  spirit  that  flared  gustily  like  a  torch  in  a 
draught.  In  the  house-court  of  his  lodging  and  in 
the  market  where  his  work  lay  men  spoke  of  the 
saving  of  money,  of  the  taxes,  of  shrewd  dealing  in 
business,  of  So-and-so  who  neglected  the  tithes 
commanded  in  the  Law.  .  .  .  Already  he  knew  the 
bleakness  of  the  spiritual  isolation  that  goes  with 
sensitive   and  passionate   enthusiasm,  but   his   un- 


30  REVELATION 

spoken  ideal  lay  beyond  the  range  of  Cymon's  sym- 
pathy. 

"I  shall  not  choose  a  wife,"  he  said. 

"That's  good,"  said  C\  m 

Nearby,  an  old  woman  selling  vegetables  haggled 
shrilly   with   a  girl   whose   hip   was   straddle  . 
pot-bellied    child.      Sparrows    twittered    ab    ut    the 
roof  of   the   colonnade,  and   a   few    mongrel 
hideous    with    scabs    and    the    patchy    baldness    of 
mange,  lay  here  and  there  on  the  steps  or  1 
agely  for  liens. 

David  sat  down  on  the  secon  i  where  Cym 

had  sat.    The  young  Greek  v.  :de  him.  leaned 

on    his    shoulder,    and    began    to    speak    in    a    1 
rapid  voice,  jerkily,  fiercely. 

"You're  not  like  the  rest.    Y<u  see  and  think,  and 
I  can  trust  you  as   1   trust   my  own  hand.   .    .   .  ] 
all  wrong — wrong  from  first  to  last.     The  no 

gods.    XI  of  Asht<  >reth  arc  pi . 

titution,  and    I    saw   a   grape    festival   at   (  da. 

Everyone  was  drunk — drunk  and  ...   But 

that's  not   the   worst — it's   the   injustice.     A   few — 
governors,    courtezans    high    priests,    patrician 
have   their   hands   on   tlv  the    world   and 

wallow  like  swine  in  a  slough  of  mud.  They  live  in 
hou  E   marble,   eat  nightingales1  tongues,  buv 

Arabian  horses,  massage  their  bodies,  tickle  their 
senses  with  perfect  women  more  valuable  than  ped- 
igree desert  mares.  .  .  .  They've  everything. 
They're  a  sort  of  imitation  demigod-.  Even  their 
finger-nails  are  polished  like  :>  And  the  rest 

— the  others,  here,  and  in  Tyre  and  in  Castabala, 
everywhere — you  know  how  they  live,  and  I  know. 
They  sweat,  and  suffer,  and  toil  in  an  endless  circle 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  31 

like  slaves  turning  mill-stones.  And  it's  the  work 
of  their  hands — the  work  of  their  million  coarse, 
bruised  hands,  with  work-scars  and  broken  nails — 
that  these  others  squander  and  wanton  with !  They 
cut  the  gems,  cast  the  metals,  dress  the  stones, 
build  the  palaces — and  they  get  a  handful  of  dates 
and  olives  and  a  little  bread.  .  .  .  Their  work  bows 
them  and  twists  them;  they  contract  repulsive  dis- 
eases; they  are  sold  as  slaves,  struck  and  beaten, 
sometimes  branded — and  always  they  work  for 
those  who  have  never  worked.  .  .  .  It's  monstrous 
— it's  insane !  A  hundred  millions  sweat  and  strain 
like  helots  chained  to  galley  benches,  and  a  hand- 
ful— prefects  and  courtezans — set  the  crown  of  life 
upon  their  brows  and  laugh  lightly  like  immortals. 
.  .  .  Birth,  life-long  slavery,  and  then — night. 
Nothingness,  the  cold  gulf  where  all  sensations  and 
their  joys  are  lost  like  the  flame  of  a  lamp  that  is 
blown  out.  .  .  .  David,  if  they  weren't  stupid  as 
oxen  from  overwork  they'd  rise  like  the  sea — over- 
throw and  enjoy — suck  life  as  one  sucks  a  sweet 
orange — live  to  the  full !  Or  if  that  should  prove 
impossible,  end  everything.  .  .  .  I'd  open  my  veins 
to-day  if  I  was  tied  to  labour  without  hope  like 
some  of  these.  .  .  .  Why  should  one  drudge  and 
cringe  for  three-score  years  with  no  payment  save 
oblivion  at  the  end  of  it?  A  man,  if  he  be  a  man, 
should  leap  straight  into  the  dark  sooner  than 
that.  ..." 

His  eager,  rapid  voice  that  had  gone  on  half 
breathlessly  with  scarcely  a  break  had  dropped  to 
a  sombre  note,  and  ended  on  it. 

After  a  moment  David  spoke. 

"Would  you  open  your  veins,  Cymon?'' 


32  REVELATION 

"To-day! — if    I    was    without    hope.      Why    not? 
.    .    .   But  I  don't  r — it  makes  me  i<j<j  angry 

for  that.  They  threw  my  father  into  prison  and 
kept  him  there  till  he  died  oi  gaol  fever  for  saying 
the  things  that  I  .say,  and  they  confiscated  all  that 
he  had.  I've  kept  myself  afloat  since  1  was  thirteen 
— I  won't  go  under.  I've  been  a  groom,  a  chai 
tier,  a  silversmith's  apprentice — and  now  I'm  a 
porter  hen-  in  Jerusalem.  .  .  .  David,  1  see  it  all 
it  should  be — no  sla\  r-,  no  palaces  or 

temples.     Pleasure  and  beauty  for  everyone.  Public 
gardens  and  tin  .    .       If  I  starve  for  it  I'll  be 

no  man's   servant.     When   a   ;  es   I   turn 

my  head  ami  spit  on  the  ground.' 

David  put  his  arm  about  the  Oth    I 

"Cymon,  my  friend,  you  mu 
crce'  as  a  muzzled  ox.  .   .    .  We're  <>f  one  mind — we 
want    no    women,   you    and    I;    and    the  I    a 

Roman  governor  offends  me  as  much  i 
you." 

"Rome!"  -aid  Cymon  1  *i  his  teeth, 

with  a   si  it   of  concent: 

"Porter!"  bawled  out  a  man  down  in  the  mar! 
who  had  ju-t    bought    a   pair  of  knee-high   earthen 
water-jar 

Roth  the  young  men  rose. 

"Your  turn  next,"  said  Cymon.     He  caught  up  a 
porter's  basket  and  went  down  the 

David  remain    '  ling   by    the   cream    marble 

column.     He  folded  his  arms.     He  was  aware- 
unaware — of  the  motley  market,  the  unea<:v.  twitch- 
ing   sleep    of    mangy    dogs,    the    turquoise    spring 
sky.  .   .   . 

"Make  way!    Way!" 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  33 

It  was  the  hoarse  voice  of  a  servant  crying  a 
passage  through  the  market  for  some  person  of 
consequence.  Pigeons  rose  into  the  air  with  noisy 
wings. 

David's  abstraction  was  pierced.  It  vanished. 
He  was  conscious  of  the  coldness  of  the  marble  col- 
umn that  his  right  shoulder  was  in  contact  with,  of 
form,  and  colour,  and  movement,  and — suddenly — 
of  the  eyes  of  a  girl  that  were  raised  to  him.  They 
were  dark  as  night — warm  night,  in  which  swam 
the  melting  Syrian  moon,  the  Lady  of  Love.  Vir- 
ginal eyes,  but  their  virginity  was  as  eager  for 
knowledge  as  the  quickened  blood  in  spring.  Beau- 
tiful eyes,  frank  as  an  animal's ;  the  eyes  of  a  child, 
of  an  unawakened  woman,  of  a  potential  Circe — the 
eyes  of  the  undying  Eve.  .  .  . 

The  young  man's  pulses  leapt  like  a  horse  struck 
with  a  whip — a  horse  that  up  to  this  moment  had 
paced  evenly  along  a  measured  course,  obedient  to 
heel  and  rein,  schooled  and  trammeled.  Now  it 
quivered,  and  sprang  forward  like  a  stag.  An  emo- 
tion that  was  also  an  impulse,  sweeter  than  wild 
honey,  stronger  than  wine,  took  hold  of  him,  pos- 
sessed him  as  the  subtle  fire  of  fermented  golden 
liquor  possesses  a  man  who  has  drunk  deeply.  .   .   . 

As  automatically  as  a  sleep-walker  he  stepped 
down  into  the  market. 

Ill 

"Sir,  you  can  see  for  yourself  that  she  is  perfect — 
not  a  blemish,  not  a  birth-mark.  She's  worth  three 
times  the  .money,  and  I've  kept  her  as  the  pupil  of 
my  eye.    I've  educated  her  since  she  was  a  slip  five 


34  REVELATION 

years  old — she  knows  the  stomach  dance,  the  dance 
of  the  bee,  the  dance  of  the  vt  .uscle  dance. 

But  that  we  are  poor  people  ;.  ed  the  mom 

could  never  have  brought  myself  to  part  with  her. 
She  is  more  than  a  daughter  to  me — sweet-tem- 
pered, quick  as  a  cat,  and  healthy  a.s  a  breast-fed 
babe." 

It  was  the  woman  who  had  thrown  her  slip; 
at  Astarte  who  rely  an  hour  had  claj 

since   that   incident.     Morninj  ittered 

outside  the  bright  1  the  wi:  [Tie  Ephe- 

sian    Diana   gh  in    her   niche.     An 

quisite  squat  .Ik  carpet  had  I  Upon 

it,   near   the   ed  te   her, 

with  the  width  of  a  yel- 

low old  Syrian,  with  h 

red,  and  a  fleshy,  I  much  with  negroid 

and  \ox\l.  re  neither  male 

nor   female.      I  with    rings, 

and  from  both  his  pi<  ling  a  tear-shaped 

rl. 

On  the  carpel  squat  r  cloth- 

ing lay  near  her  feet.  Her  hair  hung  down  to  the 
carpet   in   tv  blinked,    swallowing   in 

her  throat,  for  she  much  excited,  and  her 

heart  had  qui  :ke  th  I  of  hoofs  that  pass 

from  car  •  A  door  was  opening  with 

every  delicious  ibility  beyond   it,  for  she   was 

being  sold. 

"Dekert  aid  the  old  Syrian  with  the  d 

beard,  speaking  shortly  to  the  woman  who  faced 
him.  "you  are  too  talkative.  Let  the  gentleman 
speak.     What  d  U  think  of  her.  sir?"' 

There  was  a  moment  or  two  of  silence. 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  35 

"She  is  very  fair — very  fair  indeed.  .  .  .  The 
colouring  is  good.  She  has  no  noticeable  blemish. 
...  I  will  give  you  the  sum  I  mentioned." 

The  eunuch  spoke  with  the  careful  choice  ot 
words  and  the  dispassionate  inflection  of  a  con- 
noisseur. His  repellent  eyes  had  been  studying  the 
girl  deliberately. 

Immediately  he  alluded  to  the  price  a  pattering 
shower  of  words  deluged  him.  Bel-Namri,  the 
dealer  in  slaves,  ornamental  birds  and  foreign  ani- 
mals, expostulated,  whined,  argued  and  entreated, 
became  indignant,  melted  into  lamentations,  ad- 
dressed the  eunuch  as  his  father  and  mother. 

"Astarte,"  said  Dekerto  in  a  brisk  undertone, 
"get  your  clothes  on — there's  a  darling." 

She  heaved  herself  up. 

A  thrill  of  delicious  excitement,  keener  than  joy, 
shot  through  the  girl.  It  was  settled — she  was 
about  to  go. 

Events  followed  each  other  as  rapidly  as  inci- 
dents in  a  dream.  She  was  draped  in  clinging  white 
and  shod  with  sandal's  whose  bleached  leather 
thongs  were  embossed  with  silver.  She  stood  now 
in  the  court  where  the  cheetah  was,  and  the  ga- 
zelles. The  iron-bound  door  of  this  court  was  open. 
Dekerto  was  near  her,  too  satisfied  even  to  simulate 
grief  at  parting.  .  .  .  The  cheetah  crouched  flat, 
watching.  The  gazelles  moved  nervously.  Be- 
yond the  half-open  door,  in  shadow  and  strong  sun- 
shine, life  waited. 

"My  Honey-flower — my  Lady  of  Beauty!" 

It  was  Dido,  the  old  shrunken  negress.  She 
came  across  the  court,  her  head  thrust  forward  like 
a  tortoise's. 


36  REVELATION 

"They  are  taking  my  Lady  of  Beauty  away. 
They  are  taking  her  Honey-flower  away  from 
Dido!" 

Her  hands  were  upon  the  girl.  Her  voice  ended 
on  a  high-pitched  moan  which  resembled  the  wail- 
ing of  a  hired  mourner  at  a  funeral. 

"Oh,  Dido "  said  Astarte.     "Don't  Dido.  .    .    . 

I'm  going  to  the  house  of  the  Tetrarch,  Herod.  I 
shall  have  all  the  things  I  told  you  about  this  morn- 
ing. .   .   .  Oh,  Dido,  I  wish  you  were  coming  too." 

Her  throat  hurt  her.  She  wanted  with  all  her 
strength  to  comfort  Dido,  but  could  think  of  noth- 
ing to  say. 

"Come  along  now!     Dido!     ( '•<■'  out  of  the  w. 
you  old  fool  !'* 

A  flare  of  rage  lit  the  damped  spirit  of  the  girl, 
who  had  momentarily  forgotten  Dekerto. 

"Dido's  not  a  fool,  and  you're  a^  ugly  as  an  old 
cow-camel — and  I  hate  you  !" 

And  with  that  she  scurried  through  the  openii 
where  the  door  of  the  court  d  ajar.     Behind  her 

rose  the  keening  of  Dido,  wonderfully  pathetic.  It 
seemed  to  stab  her.  Her  eyes  swam  with  tear-,  and 
through  them  she  saw  the  sunshine  of  the  street. 

The  eunuch  was  already  reclining  in  his  open 
litter.  A  negro  stood  on  either  side  of  Astarte. 
Four  tall  Nubians,  ebony  black,  but  straight-fea- 
tured as  Arabs  and  with  beautifully  proportioned 
bodies,  lifted  the  little  poles  to  their  shoulders.  The 
negroes  stationed  on  the  right  and  left  of  the  girl 
moved  forward  and  she  moved  with  them.  The 
house  of  Bel-Namri,  the  slave  dealer,  was  behind 
them.  .  .  .  Now  the  street  turned  and  it  was  out 
of  sight.    The  unknown  encompassed  her. 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  37 

Astarte  had  never  once  in  her  fifteen  years  of  life 
gone  on  foot  through  the  streets  of  a  city.  She 
had  been  borne  from  place  to  place  in  a  curtained 
litter  along  with  Dekerto,  who  had  not  permitted 
her  even  to  look  out.  She  was  acquainted  only 
with  interior  courts  and  with  rooms  whose  open- 
ings overlooked  interior  courts.  She  had  slept, 
eaten,  bathed,  practiced  dancing  and  posturing  for 
hours  at  a  time ;  acted  as  a  sulky  handmaid  to  De- 
kerto; listened  to  Dido's  interminable  stories  of 
love,  and  magic,  and  talking  animals ;  played  at 
ball,  idled,  dreamed,  chafed  under  delicious  restless- 
ness. She  was  virgin  soil,  ignorant  as  the  child- 
woman,  Eve,  standing  beneath  the  tree  of  the 
knowledge  of  good  and  evil. 

She  blinked  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  allowed  the 
clinging  shroud  that  covered  her  head  to  slip  a 
little  back,  and  opened  the  arms  of  her  eager  being 
to  sight,  and  sound,  and  smell. 

There  was  noise — a  wonderful  variety  of  noise — 
and  splashes  of  sunshine  like  raw  gold,  and  faces — 
one  following  another  so  that  it  was  impossible  to 
remember  any  of  them  clearly.  Everyone  seemed 
either  excited  or  inhumanly  impassive.  It  was  all 
new — new  as  the  five  senses  to  a  just-born  infant. 

Now  they  were  crossing  an  open  place  encum- 
bered with  vegetables,  baskets  of  eggs,  and  fowls 
tied  together  by  the  legs  in  bunches  and  squawking 
raucously.  A  range  of  cream  marble  columns  rose 
against  the  turquoise  sky.  Astarte  raised  her  de- 
lighted eyes  to  them..  A  step  or  two  above  her,  and 
leaning  against  one  of  the  columns,  was  a  young 
man,  very  dark,  well-set,  and  wearing  only  a  tunic, 


38  REVELATION 

which  lay  open  on  his  chest,  revealing  the  hairless 
olive  skin.     Their  eyes  met. 

An  extraordinarily  new  thrill  struck  through  As- 
tarte.  The  eyes  that  had  encountered  hers  wen 
an  indescribable  maleness,  strange  as  those  of  a 
dweller  upon  another  planet.  They  baffled  her,  yet 
she  wanted  to  cover  her  face  with  her  hands  as 
though  convicted  of  something  forbidden. 

Squawk-squa-awk ! 

Baa-a-a ! 

"Make  way — way  !" 

The  litter-bearing  Nubians,  keeping  step  like  ma- 
chines, had  not  slackened  for  an  instant.  Astarte 
was  aware  that  the  young  man  was  aire, 
behind  her — receding  from  her  like  the  marble  col- 
onnade. She  wanted  to  to  turn  round,  to  go 
back  towards  the  place  where  he  stood.  And  she 
wanted  to  do  tl  vehemently,  urgently. 
But  it  was  quite  impossible.  .  .  .  She  turned  her 
head,  looking  back  over  her  shoulder  in  the  direction 
from  which  she  had  come. 

He    was    there — ten  behind.      They    were 

traversing  another  street  now,  but  she  was  hardly 
conscious  of  it.     The  knowledge  that  he  was  i 
lowing  them  obsessed  her  to  the  exc!  of  all 

other  perceptions.     Tt  was  a  great,  glowing  fact. 

As  though  by  merest  chance  she  glanced  acain 
over  her  shoulder.  .  .  .  His  eyes  were  dark  as 
onyx  and  steady  as  those  of  an  archer  drawing 
his  bow  against  a  lion. 

Ahead  a  gateway  rose,  square  and  massive  as  an 
Egyptian  pylon.  The  Nubian  litter-bearers  slack- 
ened. Astarte  understood  that  she  was  about  to 
enter  the  house  of  Herod,  the  Tetrarch.  .    .   .  For 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  39 

the  third  time  she  glanced  backward  across  her 
shoulder,  turning-  her  head  as  far  as  she  could. 

A  shadow  fell  on  her — the  shadow  of  the  gate. 

The  litter-bearers  halted,  lowering  the  litter  until 
it  rested  upon  its  four  gilt  legs,  each  of  which  ter- 
minated in  a  claw  clutching  a  pomegranate.  Wall 
surfaces  of  marble  rose  on  three  sides,  topped  by 
semi-Egyptian  cornices,  red,  green  and  gilt. 

"Follow  me — girl." 

It  was  the  first  time  the  eunuch  had  spoken  to 
Astarte.    Already  she  disliked  him  instinctively. 

She  obeyed  mutely,  her  eyes  busy  with  every- 
thing, and  a  bland  warmth  caressing  her.  They  as- 
cended an  exterior  staircase,  traversed  an  open  gal- 
lery which  overlooked  the  boskage  of  garden  courts 
and  were  admitted  by  a  door  of  cedar-wood  to  a 
rather  wide,  low-ceilinged  hall,  the  ivory  pallor  of 
whose  marble  was  emphasized  by  regularly  spaced 
inlet  squares  of  sea-green  malachite.  The  farther 
end  was  open,  save  for  a  pair  of  peacock-blue  cur- 
tains suspended  from  a  silver  rod.  Between  and 
above  these  curtains  indirect  daylight  entered.  The 
dim  place  was  very  cool.  Half  a  dozen  girls  lay 
negligently  on  a  great  square  of  carpet. 

"You  are  to  remain  here,"  said  the  eunuch. 

Then,  without  paying  any  further  attention  to 
Astarte,  he  went  on  down  the  hall,  walking  very 
deliberately,  and  with  the  sleek  and  fleshy  self-suf- 
ficiency— the  feminine  arrogance — of  an  emascu- 
lated priest  of  Cybele,  and  passed  out  between  the 
curtains. 

The  moment  he  was  out  of  sight  all  the  girls 
lounging  upon  the  square  of  carpet  sprang  up.  They 
mobbed  Astarte  without  a  shadow  of  diffidence. 


40  REVELATION 

"What's  your  name?" 

"What  can  you  do?" 

"Look  at  her  hair,  Iris — it's  henna-colour." 

"1  low  old  are 

"Old    Importance   b  re — didn't    i. 

We  alv  all  him  [mporta  hen  he  isn't 

ing,  because  he  think-  the  sun  rises  ju-t  for  him." 

Astartc     was    delighn  Hands     touched     her, 

voices  question*  ered  the  q 

in  their  order. 

"I  am  calk  tarte.   .    .    .   1  d   ■    •     ...   I  an 

fifteen." 

"Come  and   sit    down   with   inc  -1    think   you're 
darling  1  the  girl  n  mg 

her  arm   about   A 

.  micfdl  d,  trai  lently  feminine  hi, 

Iding  I  |  in  flu 

Men  t1  r  turquoi 

a   -1  li  >"k   '  b  tt    I  •  il<  >1  a  in  mineral  i »] 

They  seemed  tl     i  I  a  child,  but  tl 

es  '>f  a  snake. 

She  drew  Astarte  down  1 
carpet,    and    the    r  :    round,    loui 

squatting,  in  a  half-circle.     There  was   Helen. 
other  Greek;  very  statu<  There  \\a~  !!   I 

narow-loined  Egyptian;  and  Semla,  ,irl. 

plump  as  a  pigeon,  who  seemed  half  asl<  tnd 

\mytis,   a    thirteen -year-old    Persian   as   wh 
milk,  with  hair  as  Mack  as  the  goats  dead. 

Vstarte's  white  clinging  shroud  was  unwound 
from  her  by  deft  hands.  She  sat  upright  <>n  the 
carpet  clnd  in  a  narrow  garment  of  fine,  semi- 
transparent  linen  that  left  her  arms  hare  and  was 
kept  in  place  by  two  strings  of  flat,  greenish-blue 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  41 

Egyptian     beads      that     passed     over     her     nude 
shoulders. 

"Now  tell  us  about  yourself.  We're  all  as  dull 
as  bats  this  morning  and  dying  for  some  news. 
Aren't  we,  girls?" 

"Oh,    gods — yes !       1    want     to    hear     someone 

talk ''  said  the  flawless  Helen,  throwing  wide 

her  arms. 

Astarte  was  the  centre  of  interest.  She  felt  al- 
ready as  though  she  had  known  these  girls  for  a 
year. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  tell  you — really  I  don't. 
...  I  have  seen  nothing.  They  kept  me  shut  up 
as  though  I  were  a  bird  in  a  cage.  .  .  .  There  was 
Bel-Namri — he  sells  gazelles  and  peacocks  and 
hunting  dogs  and  leopards.  I  suppose  he  must  have 
bought  me  when  I  was  very  small.  He  is  old,  and 
dyes  his  beard  with  henna.  I  didn't  like  him.  And 
there  was  Dekerto — whom  I  hated.  She  used  to 
beat  me  and  call  me  bad  names.  She  taught  me  to 
dance,  for  she  herself  has  been  a  stomach  dancei 
and  a  posturer,  though  now  she  is  as  fat  as  a  calv- 
ing cow.  ...  I  saw  only  those  two — and  Dido.  I 
loved  Dido.  She  is  a  negress,  and  very  old,  but  she 
used  to  call  me  her  Honey-flower,  and  hide  me  from 
Dekerto,  and  steal  almonds  and  grapes  for  me.  .  .  ." 
Her  voice  paused.  She  blinked  her  eyes,  for  they 
were  wet. 

"I  am  so  glad  I  was  sold  this  morning  and  have 
come  here.    This  is  a  very  beautiful  place." 

"Oh,  listen  to  her!  Isn't  she  a  darling?"  cried 
the  fair  and  fluffy  Iris.  She  flung  her  arms  about 
Astarte.  "Then  you've  never  been  in  love?  Has 
no  man  ever  kissed  you?" 


42  REVELATION 

Astarte  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  you  unborn  babe!  You  little  pigeon!  .  .  . 
You're  as  wonderful  as  a  miracle." 

Astarte  twisted  a  little  round  to  see  the  fair 
laughing  face  and  the  turquoise  eyes. 

"Have  you  been  in  love?"  she  said. 

She  was  very  interested,  and  it  was  delightful  to 
have  the  smooth  arms  of  a  girl  about  her. 

Iris  did  not  answer — she  threw  back  her  golden 
head  and  laughed  as  uncontrollably  as  though  she 
were  being  tickled  with  a  feather. 

"You  are  delicious!"  she  led  when  she  had 

done  laughing.     "Now  ask  Helen  wl  r  she's  in 

love.  She's  crazy  about  one  of  the  Nubians  who 
carry  old  Importance's  litter.  She  can*t  sleep  fof 
thinking  of  him." 

"Faugh!  He's  black!"  said  Semla,  the  plump 
Syrian  girl.  "I  couldn't  desire  a  man  who  looked 
like  ebony." 

"That's  just  it — it's  the  novelty  of  him,  dear.  I'm 
sick  of  white  skins." 

It  was  now  near  noon  and  had  become  very 
warm.  A  palpable  hush  of  midday  sleep  had  fallen. 
Iris  drew  Astarte  down  to  lie  with  her.  curving  an 
arm  about  her  neck.  As  they  lay  together  she  whis- 
pered to  her,  and  her  warm  breath  was  pleasant  and 
her  skin  was  perfumed  like  the  petal  of  a  flower. 

"There  is  a  feast  to-night.  Helen  and  I  will  pos- 
ture for  them,  and  Semla  will  dance,  and  you.  too.  I 
suppose.  If  they've  kept  you  as  close  as  you  say, 
you'll  have  to  open  your  eyes  wide  to-night.  You'll 
feel  as  though  you  were  alive  for  the  first  time.  .  .  . 
Helen  is  anxious  for  her  Nubian  to  see  her — she 
hopes  he  will  be  there  as  a  torch-bearer.     Semla  is 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  43 

in  love  with  a  Greek  boy  from  Crete  who  boxes  and 
wrestles — I  don't  know  whether  he  will  be  there. 
If  he  sees  you  he  may  neglect  her.  .  .  .  We  call  him 
Adonis,  and  Semla  says  that  he  kisses  as  though  a 
girl's  mouth  were  made  of  honey.  ..." 

Quiet  reigned.  In  the  dim  hall  the  dancing  girls 
lay  in  a  cluster,  breathing  evenly.  Satin  sides 
pulsed  regularly;  large  pearls  encrusting  the  toe- 
rings  that  garnished  henna-stained  feet  cradled  a 
milky  lustre.  All  sounds  seemed  remote,  and  the 
motionless  air  was  unquickened  by  any  shaft  of  di- 
rect light. 

Astarte  dozed  like  the  others.  She  had  a  healthy 
faculty  for  sleep  or  half-sleep  at  any  time.  Her 
unquestioning  consciousness,  ignorant,  yet  a  poten- 
tial vehicle  for  all  quickening  or  devastating  emo- 
tion, was  immersed  in  sweet  semi-oblivion  like  a 
floating  bather  in  tepid  water.  The  fragrant  whis- 
pers of  Iris  still  seemed  to  dwell  in  her  ears.  She 
had  spoken  of  love,  and  again  of  love.  .  .  .  The 
young  man  who  had  stood  by  the  cream  marble 
column  overlooking  the  market  was  more  satisfy- 
ing to  the  sight  than  any  splendid  Nubian  could 
possibly  be.  Would  he  kiss  as  Iris  had  said  that 
the  Greek  boxer  kissed — as  though  a  girl's  mouth 
were  made  of  honey?  ...  A  bland  sense-warmth 
suffused  and  coloured  the  dreaming  semi-oblivion. 
The  partially  drugged  consciousness  dwelt  upon  a 
memory  of  steady  onyx  eyes,  unswerving  as  the 
eyes  of  an  archer  who  draws  his  bow  against  a  lion. 
...  A  mind-picture  shaped  itself  and  moved,  tak- 
ing blurred  colour.  The  young  man  of  the  market 
stood  face  to  face  with  Astarte  and  so  near  that  he 
could  touch  her  if  he  raised  his  hand.     His  eyes 


44  REVELATIOl 

were  concentrated  upon  her  as  they  had  been  when 
she  turned  her  head  and  saw  him  behind  her  in 
street.     She  freed  herself  from  her  clinging  white 
shroud  and  shook  her  hair  so  that  the  long  tresses 
fell  down  her  back  and  ac:  -r  bared  should 

almost   to  her  sandaled   feet.     Then   she  raided  her 
eyes  to  hi-,  and  he  drew  suddenly  cl  her  .   .    . 

and  the  manner  of  his  though  her 

mouth  were  made  of  honey.   .    .    . 

Perhaps  an  hour  had  passed.     A  had  d 

dreamed  and  slipped  for  a  little  while  into  dream- 
le  -  sleep.    Now  she  sighed,  and  wa         ake.    S 

sat    up. 

Iris,   who   had   lain   beside   her,   " 

other  dancing  girls  lay  had  I  en  them, 

sleeping  like  children.     She  herself  ntly 

Her  young  !  with  life.     A  de- 

sire for  quick  movent 

her.     She   rose   up,  but   without   ma'' 

I  door  by  which  she  had  enl 
ever  so  slightly  ajar — a  for 
sunlight  lay  upon  the  marble  floor.     Iris  must  h 

-ed  out  that  way.  leaving  the  door 
Curiosity,  hungry  vital'  1   a  venturing  spirit, 

fearless   as    a    kitten's — these    three   p' 
tarte.      She   picked   her   way   between    the    sleej 
p'rls,    stepping    delicately,    and    so    off    the    car- 
square  and  across  the  cool  floor  to  the  unfa 
door  and  the  line  of  light.     Hesitating  only   for  I 
breath  she  put  out  her  hand  and  drew  the  door  to- 
wards her.   widening   the   opening.      In   a   moment 
more — using    the    utmost    instinctive    precaution — 
she  had   slipped  out.  drawing  it  almost   to  behind 
her. 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  45 

The  noon  sun  was  in  her  eyes,  dazzling  her.  It 
was  as  though  she  had  stepped  into  a  thrice-heated 
hath.  She  stood  blinking  with  puckered  eyebrows. 
Beneath  her  was  the  mingled  foliage  of  orange 
and  myrtle,  and  a  staircase  led  down  to  the  thatch 
of  glossy  leaves.  The  shade  of  these  leaves  was  as 
inviting  as  a  fountain  set  in  palms  to  a  desert  trav- 
eler. Astarte's  feet,  from  which  she  had  removed 
the  sandals  an  hour  before,  made  no  noise,  as  she 
descended  the  stair. 

The  tessellated  pavement  was  flecked  here  and 
there  with  fallen  leaves.  The  murmur  of  water 
was  audible  as  she  went  towards  it,  looking  right 
and  left,  with  parted  lips  that  seemed  equally  ready 
to  laugh  breathlessly  or  to  utter  a  sharp  cry  of  de- 
lightful fear.  From  the  crown  of  her  alert,  red- 
golden  head  to  the  soles  of  her  naked  feet  she  was 
happy. 

At  the  exact  centre  of  this  precinct  was  a  wheel- 
shaped  sheet  of  water  murmurously  replenished 
from  the  mouth  of  a  marble  fish.  Beyond  it  a 
carved  bench  was  set  back  among  the  myrtles  and 
so  lay  in  shadow.  Upon  this  bench  a  man  was  ex- 
tended, asleep.  He  was  about  twenty-five — per- 
haps a  year  older  or  younger — and  a  Roman.  His 
handsome  head  rested  on  his  bent  arm,  which  was 
as  muscular  as  a  gladiator's. 

By  the  circular  sheet  of  water  stood  a  girl — Iris. 
Both  her  dexterous  hands  were  at  her  head,  adjust- 
ing the  fluffy  hair  with  little  pats  and  pulls.  For 
some  moments  she  continued  to  preen  herself,  then 
skirted  the  pool,  cat-footed,  and  paused  by  the 
sleeper.  Deliberately  she  bent  herself,  leaning  over 
him.     Her   pink,    rather   pulpy    mouth,   perfect   in 


46  REVELATION 

form  as  the  bow  of  Cupid,  and  therefore  purely  ani- 
mal, approached  his.  Lower  she  leant  and  her  lips 
came  on  the  lips  of  the  sleeping  man  in  a  slow, 
closely-pressed  kiss. 

Her  pose  was  that  of  the  blond  moon  goddess 
who  leaned  down  out  of  the  young  night  to  the 
mouth  of  Endymion,  but  the  naked  noon  sun  of 
Syria  was  above  her,  and  the  perfume  with  which 
she  had  anointed  her  breast  and  shoulders  mingled 
with  her  even  breath,  and  the  lips  on  which  she 
dwelt  deliberately  were  cynical  even  in  sleep.  .    .    . 

What  was  it?  What  had  she  heard?  Her  bent 
head    lifted    with    a    jerk.      She    glance  r    her 

scented  shoulder,  took  four  or  five  quick,  soft  steps 
and  melted  into  the  myrtle  bushes  that  passed 
closely  about  the  marble  bench  where  Cupids  in 
low-relief  were  linked  with  rose  garlands  and 
either  end  was  finished  with  a  blunt  bull's  head. 

Astarte  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  open  space.  Her 
eyes  were  upon  the  fish  from  whose  mouth  the 
fountain  water  flowed.  She  had  seen  nothing  like 
it  before.  What  a  marvelous  thing  it  was! 
went  forward  to  the  circular  fountain,  kneeli-d 
down,  and  tilted  her  head  sideways  to  look  into  the 
fish's  mouth,  which   was  coat  ide  with  dark- 

green  slime.     The  little  unceasing  ripple^  wimpled 
at  the  circular  margin,  and  bubbles  transient  as  the 
glint  of  a  half-remembered  dream  floated  and  bw 
floated  and  burst.  .   .   . 

The  soles  of  a  pair  of  sandals  smote  the  pavement 
with  a  metallic  sound  as  the  man  who  had  been 
asleep  turned  over  upon  the  bench  and  sat  up. 

Astarte,  who  had  been  unaware  both  of  Iris  and 
of  the  sleeper  whom  she  had  kissed  on  the  lips, 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  47 

lifted  startled  eyes.  She  saw  a  man  clad  in  a  red 
tunic  whose  deep  gold  fringe  fell  about  his  strong, 
bare  knees.  He  sat  forward,  regarding  her.  The 
hair  of  his  square,  close-clipped  head  was  a  lightish 
brown.  His  eyes  were  grey.  His  mouth,  which 
had  been  that  of  a  strong-willed,  selfish  materialist 
to  start  with — a  typical  masculine  mouth — had  a 
cynical  twist  in  it  which  was  more  than  a  little 
cruel.  He  was  noticeably  handsome,  and  as  com- 
pactly and  unmistakably  dominant  as  a  clenched 
fist. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  said. 

"I  am  called  Astarte.  I  dance.  I  was  brought 
to  this  place  a  little  before  noon.  .  .  .  Who  are 
you?" 

Astarte  was  quite  unperturbed.  Men  had  never 
beaten  her  or  thrown  slippers  at  her.  She  was 
vastly  interested  in  them,  being  acquainted  only 
with  Bel-Namri,  who  had  always  appealed  to  her 
as  a  shriveled  and  unsatisfactory  representative  of 
his  sex. 

"I  am  called  Valerius.  ...  I  am  captain  of  the 
guard  here  and  a  Roman  citizen.  .  .  .  Why  did  you 
kiss  me?" 

He  had  answered  her  almost  as  she  had  answered 
him.  His  close-set  lips  were  amused,  but  his  nar- 
rowed grey  eyes  regarded  her  as  he  regarded  all 
women  who  were  trim  in  the  body,  and  whose  faces 
were  smooth  and  oval-cheeked. 

"I  didn't  kiss  you.  I  didn't  see  you  until  you  sat 
up.  ...  I  came  to  look  at  the  fish  the  water  comes 
from." 

"Someone  kissed  me.  ...  If  it  wasn't  you  it 
ought  to  have  been.    You've  got  a  perfect  mouth." 


48  REVEL         >N 

Ambushed  in  the  myrtle.-,  Ir  :ied,  absol 

still.     A  subtle  fire  of  pure   r  n   in  h 

Her  bosom  and  narrow,  exquisitely  Eemini  ai- 

ders  were    sweet   as    Merited    lilies;   an 
jewel  of  lapis  lazuli,  the 

a  thread  of  gold  from  the  golden  i  and  u 

the  middle  finger  of  her  rig 
ingly  careless,  had      :en  arranged  in  such  a  □ 
as  to  halo  the  pale  flower  of 

tO  foot   she    Was    pi 

had   gone   out   cat 

found  the   man   s}:  |   plani 

find  him,  and  had  ki  jsed  hi- 

from     sleep    by    the 

mouth — and   he   had  -d   a 

henna-headed  g'rl  kii  \   right 

and   ai  ng   him  qu< 

self-confident  boy.   .    .    . 

Valerius  rose  to  1      feet. 

"There's  ai  I         tie  thi 

:."  he  said.    "I'll  I'll  ki 

whether   you    kissed    mi 
mouth-  are  alii 

\-tarte    Stood   Up 

It  was  all  wonderfully  novel,  pi 

She  did  not  want  this  mail  actually  I 

the   know'  that   he   desired   to  do  ;-   like 

wine. 

"I  didn't   ki-     you       And   you   can't   catch   me!" 
she  said. 

"Can't  i  1  Valerius. 

The  circular    [  in   was  between   them.  The 

was  a  loud  splash.     Astarte  stood  knee-deep  in  the 
agitated  water,  laughing. 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  49 

"You'll  have  to  get  a  net  to  catch  me  now!" 

There  was  another  louder  splash.  In  the  middle 
of  the  fountain  Valerius  held  the  girl  in  his  arms. 

"You  shouldn't  challenge  me — it's  foolish,''  he 
said. 

Astarte's  thin,  drenched  linen  garment  clung  to 
her  body.  The  ends  of  her  ankle-length  red-gold 
hair  floated  on  the  water. 

"Child,  you're  the  loveliest  girl  in  the  palace." 
said  Valerius,  and  there  was  a  deeper  note  in  his 
voice. 

Astarte  ducked  her  head  just  in  time  to  avoid  his 
lips. 

"Let  me  go!  I  don't  want  to  be  kissed!" 

She  writhed  like  an  eel. 

"You're  going  to  be  kissed.  When  I  want  any- 
thing I  take  it." 

Suddenly  Astarte  was  wildly  angry.  She  was 
not  a  horse  or  an  ass  to  submit  instantly  to  the 
will  of  any  man  who  shouted  at  her.  Her  mouth 
was  her  own. 

"Let  me  go — or  I'll  bite  you!" 

But  she  could  not  stir — could  not  free  her  hands. 
He  held  her  as  rigidly  as  though  she  were  in  the 
arms  of  a  stone  god.  A  feeling  of  powerlessness 
came  over  her  in  spite  of  her  resentment. 

Valerius  laughed. 

"Now  I  am  going  to  kiss  you,"  he  said. 

He  bent  his  head,  setting  his  lips  on  hers.  .   .   . 

The  fountain  water  murmured  from  the  mouth 
of  the  marble  fish.  "Coo-coo-o,  coo-coo-o,"  said  a 
plump  white  dove  sitting  on  some  cornice  or  cop- 
ing. 


50  REVELATION 

Valerius  raised  his  head.  The  kiss  had  lasted 
about  ten  seconds. 

"I   told  you  that   I    take   what    I   want,"  he   said. 
"Your  mouth  tastes  as  though  it  had  the  dew 
it  still." 

He  lifted  her  suddenly  of!  her  feet,  stepped  up 
out  of  the  shallow  fountain  basin,  and  >et  her  down 
00  the  tessellated  pavement.  Water  dripped  from 
her,  and  one  of  her  shoulder-Strap  I  Egypl 
beads  had  given  way.  She  was  rumpled  like  a  kit- 
ten that  a  dog  has  muzzled. 

"You  won't  make  such  a   fa  .t   time  1 

to  kiss  you,  will  \  -aid  Valerius. 

Astarte  raised  her   i  ..im,  drawing  s: 

breath. 

"You  shan't  touch  me  again — I'd  stab  you 
sooner  !     Take  that !" 

Quick  as  tl  *   she  struck  him  across  the  face 

— so  smartly  that  her  hand  tingled.     Then  whij 
round  and  fled  like  the  wind,  through  the  i 
and  orange  bushes,  up  tl  "id  in 

the  cedar  door  was  still  ajar,  shutting  it  behind  her 
with  a  snap. 

IV 

When   the  eunuch,  borne  by  his   Nubians  and  fol- 
lowed by  Astarte  and  the  two  negro  slave 
under   the   heavy   gateway    of   the   house  of   He: 
David,  who  had   followed  them    from  the   market, 
stood  in  the  shadow  of  a  wall,  watching. 

About  a  minute  elapsed.  Then  he  went  across 
and  spoke  to  the  negroid  mercenary,  leaning  on 
his  ebony-hafted  spear  at  the  right-hand  side  of  the 
gate. 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  51 

"Who  was  .   .  .  the  girl  who  went  in  just  now?" 

The  man  grinned  amiably  at  him. 

"How  should  I  know?  I  never  sighted  her  be- 
fore. But  she's  a  new  dancer,  as  like  as  not.  There's 
a  feast  to-night — a  devil  of  a  good  time  for  some. 
Girls  and  wine.  ..." 

He  spat, 

David  turned  from  him,  skirted  the  blank  wall  he 
had  passed  beside,  and  went  on  blindly,  walking  at 
random.  His  state  of  mind  might  be  compared  to 
that  of  one  who  has  received  the  sudden  and  incon- 
ceivable gift  of  sight  after  darkness  from  birth. 
Spiritually  he  groped,  blinded  with  throbbing 
colour.  .   .   . 

Three  times  the  girl  had  turned  her  head  to  look 
at  him.  Three  times  those  wonderful,  ignorant  eyes 
that  wanted  knowledge  had  encountered  his. 
Every  vein  in  his  body  was  athrill  with  singing 
blood.  A  consciousness  of  his  poised  and  supple 
strength  seemed  to  have  come  to  him  for  the  first 
time,  and  with  it  manhood.  He  felt  that  he  could 
laugh  in  the  face  of  the  world  and  hold  it  at  bay 
like  a  young  lion. 

Presently  he  found  that  he  was  at  a  gate  of  the 
city.  Beyond  it  light-coloured,  waterless  hillsides 
lay  under  the  sun,  which  was  approaching  the 
zenith.  An  inner  need  of  space,  and  isolation,  and 
a  falling  away  of  sounds  drew  him,  and  he  passed 
under  the  gate. 

From  the  outer  edge  of  the  road  that  skirted  the 
city  wall  the  barren  hillside  fell  steeply  to  where, 
at  the  bottom  of  the  valley,  water  ran  among 
stones.  David  took  his  way  downhill,  following  a 
goat-path — a  solitary  figure.    The  bleached  rubbish 


52  REVELATION 

of  centuries  cumbered  the  slopes — the  rubble  of 
shattered  masonry,  potsherds,  bones.  At  some 
points  sluggish  liquid  filth,  black  as  pitch,  oozed  out 
— the  filtering  drainage  of  the  hill  city.  David 
walked  like  a  demigod  wrapt  in  a  golden  cloud,  con- 
scious only  of  the  song  of  his  pulses.  .  .  . 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  two  men — hairy  and  vil- 
lainous camel  drivers — were  quarreling.  One 
threw  the  other,  pinned  him  down — kicking,  and 
cursing  obscenely — and  drew  a  knife.  But  before 
he  could  strike  he  was  plucked  suddenly  backward 
and  cast  sideways,  falling  heavily.  After  a  moment 
or  two  he  scrambled  up,  his  face  bloody,  divided 
between  truculence  and  fear.  His  companion  had 
also  regained  his  feet,  dust-whitened  and  scowling. 

David,  who  had  interfered  with  the  scuffle,  faced 
them,  weaponless. 

"Strike  me  blind!"  said  the  man  with  the  knife. 
"A  cub — a  hairless  cub!  I'll  learn  you  to  meddle 
with  your  betters,  you  puppy — may  your  guts  rot 
for  it!" 

"Yes,  learn  him!"  said  the  other. 

As  the  man  with  the  knife  came  at  him  David 
met  him  half-way,  clinched  with  him.  lifted  him 
clean  off  the  ground,  and  hurled  him  back  so  that 
his  body  encountered  that  of  his  companion  and 
they  fell  together.  The  knife  fell  with  a  rattle  on 
the  stones.  David  stooped  quickly  and  caught  it 
up.  It  was  longish,  ugly-looking,  well  weighted.  A.s 
the  two  camel  drivers  rose  from  the  dust  he  spoke 
to  them. 

"I  have  the  knife.  Go  quickly — both  of  you — or 
you  shall  join  your  fathers  and  be  bridegrooms  to 
the  worms." 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  53 

They  saw  that  he  meant  it,  and  went,  halting  at  a 
distance  to  turn  and  curse  him.  Then  they  disap- 
peared. 

David  laughed.  He  cast  the  knife  from  him  so 
that  it  fell  point  downwards  and  stuck  quivering  in 
the  ground.  His  muscles  tingled  from  the  bracing 
shock  of  the  encounter,  and  his  eyes  were  alight. 

Keeping  on  down  the  slope  he  crossed  the  stony 
water-bed,  went  a  little  way  farther,  and  seated 
himself  on  an  ancient  squared  block  of  hewn  stone 
among  stunted,  grey-green  olive  trees.  The  black 
goat-hair  tent,  low  and  ramshackle,  of  a  nomad 
from  the  Judaean  desert,  had  been  pitched  nearby. 
Bright  rags  to  ward  off  bad  spirits  and  avert  the 
Evil  Eye  hung  at  the  tent  entrance,  which  was 
barely  half  the  height  of  a  man.  Goats  moved 
among  the  olive-trees  and  boulders.  Here  and 
there,  in  patches  of  shadow  where  the  grass  throve, 
were  sparse  wild  violets,  for  it  was  the  spring. 

Before  David,  out  in  the  hot  noon  sunlight,  mir- 
age-like, a  figure  seemed  to  stand — a  young  girl 
closely  draped  in  white.  She  was  of  middle  height. 
The  braided  hair  that  framed  her  face  was  a  bright 
auburn — golden-red.  Under  delicate,  narrow, 
arched  brows  her  dark  eyes  swam  like  a  deer's. 
Her  mouth  was  a  red  flower  where  will  and  pas- 
sion, lack  of  self-control  and  a  quick,  sensitive 
perception  met.  David's  gaze  did  not  swerve  from 
her.  In  spirit  he  went  down  upon  his  knees  before 
her  and  kissed  her  feet,  for  she  was  immaculate  as 
the  snow  upon  the  summits  of  far  mountains.  In- 
wardly he  glowed  as  though  his  heart  were  a  burn- 
ing coal,  yielding  himself  wholly  to  the  bland  flame 


54  REVELATIO 

of  reverence   and    worship   that   lapped   him   lik< 
tangible,  soft  lire.  .   .   . 

The  sun  moved.  The  pulse  of  life  beat  evenly, 
inexorably,  neither  swift  nor  Blow,  and  every  beat 
was  a  vanished  minute.  Single  figures  came  and 
went  on  the  goat-paths  that  cris-crossed  the  lepr 
hill  slope  below  the  city.  The  browsing  goats 
moved  higher  among  the  gnarled  and  stunted  oli\ 
lay  down,  then  brov.  in.     A  young  woman 

came  stooping  out  of  the  nomad's  tent.    She  called, 
coaxing,    and    a    dimpled,    naked    child,    yellow: 
brown,  tottered  out   after   her,  rarely 

able  to  keep  erect.      The   womai  •■  n   CT< 

legged    in    the    light    shadow    of    the    ashen-lea  ■ 
olive-trees,   played    with    the    child,   took    him    i 
her  lap,  and  gave  him  the  breast.    Close  by  a  - 
goat    stood  patiently  while  her  two  tiny,  straddle- 
legged  kids  sucked  vigorously  at  her  full  udder. 

David  had  turned  his  head  when  the  woman  call 
to  the  child.     He  watched  her,  at  fir  ently.  .  .  . 

That  child,  pushing  against  the  uncovered  '' 
had  been  begotten  by  a  man  who  had  chosen  the 
mother  of  the  child  from  among  all  other  women, 

holding  her   lovely   and   desirable \s   he 

watched  his  mind  seemed,  as  it  were,  to  leap  a  gap. 
.  .  .  He  drew  a  quick  breath.  ...  It  was  like  a 
sacrilege,  shameful,  forbidden — yet  of  a  fearful,  un- 
imaginable sweetnes 

"Behold,  thou  art  fair,  my  love.  Thy  two  brea 
are  like  two  young  roses  that  are  twins,  which 
feed  among  the  lilies.  ..."  The  words  of  the 
Song  of  Solomon,  which  he  had  read  when  he  w^ 
a  boy  of  thirteen,  came  to  his  mind.  He  stood  up 
suddenly,  his  nostrils  dilated.  .   .  . 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  55 

It  was  now  late  afternoon,  wanting-  about  an 
hour  to  sunset,  and  the  walls  of  the  hill  city  had 
taken  on  an  ochre-coloured  warmth.  David  remem- 
bered Cymon — Cymon,  his  friend,  who  would 
surely  listen  with  quick  understanding.  .  .  .  He 
had  eaten  nothing  since  sunrise,  but  felt  no  need 
of  food.  Recrossing  the  torrent  bed  he  began  to 
climb  the  long  ascent. 

Cymon's  lodging  was  above  a  potter's  yard  in  a 
wretched  quarter  of  the  town.  The  ancient  mat- 
tress he  slept  upon  bided  all  day  rolled  up  by  the 
parapet  of  the  house  roof.  At  night  he  unrolled  it 
and  drew  sacking  over  himself  if  the  air  were  cold. 

The  brief  spring  sunset  glowed  like  fire  embers 
in  the  west  with  a  lucid  greenish  pallor  above  it 
as  David  came  to  the  potter's  yard.  The  yard  was 
deserted,  and  he  went  up  the  unbalustraded,  ex- 
terior staircase  that  led  to  the  roof. 

Cymon  was  standing  by  the  parapet,  watching 
the  smouldering  sunset.  Save  for  his  solitary  fig- 
ure, in  whose  pose  there  was  a  mute  defiance,  the 
roof  was  empty.  He  turned,  hearing  David,  and 
came  a  little  way  forward. 

"Where  did  you  go?"  he  said.  "I  haven't  seen 
you  since  mid-morning." 

David  came  right  up  to  him  before  he  answered, 
looked  at  him,  then  away  at  the  throbbing  day's 
embers  in  the  west. 

"I've  been  outside  the  city,"  he  said.  "Sit  down, 
Cymon.  .  .  .  Don't  speak  till  I've  finished.  I  want 
you  to  understand.  ..." 

Cymon  settled  himself  on  the  unrolled  mattress 
without  a  word,  clasping  his  knees.     David  sat  by 


56  REVELATION 

him,  his  body  bent   forward  and  one  knee   drawn 
up,  looking  always  steadily  into  the  fading  west. 

"It  was  just  after  you  left  me  in  the  market 
that  I  saw  her,"  he  said.  "She  looked  up  at  me. 
.  .  .  She's  young,  Cymon,  and  her  eyes  are — as 
though  she  had  just  opened  them.  She's  as  pale 
as  ivory,  and  her  hair  is  wonderful.  The  way  she 
turns  her  head,  the  way  -lie  walks — no  other 
woman  moves  like  she  does.  .  .  .  She's  perfect,  and 
more  beautiful  than  anything  one  sees  in  a  dream. 
...  I  followed  her  till  she  passed  under  the  gate 
of  Herod's  house,  and  then  T  went  out  of  the  city 
.   .   .  and  afterwards  came  straight  here.  .    .    . 

"It's  as  though  T  had  gone  down,  suddenly,  into 
deep  waters;  and  these  waters  are  the  thoughl 
her — only  of  her.   .    .    .   T  must  see  her  again — it's 
like  hunger  and  thirst,  but  worse." 

His  lowered  voice  ceasod.  He  had  spoken  with 
many  pauses. 

"What  is  she?'"  said  Cymon.  He  spoke  without 
a   shade  of  expression  one  way  or  the  other. 

"I  asked  one  of  the  guards  at  the  gate.  He  said 
she  was  a  new  dancer,  brought  there  for  the  first 
time. 

"You're  in  love,"  said  Cymon.  "That's  the  length 
and  breadth  of  it.  .  .  .  It's  no  use  saying  anything 
to  you — I'd  have  killed  anyone  who  spoke  against 
that  temple  girl  in  Tyre — the  girl  I  told  you  of. 
.  .  .  You'll  have  to  find  out  for  yourself.  I'm 
sorrv.  ..." 

There  was  a  pause  of  quite  a  minute. 

"Cymon,"  said  David,  "I've — I've  never  touched 
a  woman — not  once.  They  seemed — foolish,  empty. 
It  would  have  been — a  degradation.  .    .    .   But  this 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  57 

is  different.  She's  pure — wonderful.  ...  I  can't 
put  it  into  words." 

There  was  another  pause. 

"I  feel  that  if  I  touched  her  it  would  be  like 
touching  a  consecrated  thing.  .  .  .  You  haven't 
seen  her — you  don't  understand." 

"I  do,"  said  Cymon.  "I'm  very  sorry,  David.  .  .  . 
What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I  don't  know.  ...  I  must  see  her  again." 

"She's  a  dancing  girl?" 

"The  man  at  the  gate  said  so." 

Again  a  silence. 

"Have  you  eaten  anything  since  the  morning?" 

"No." 

"Then  eat  now.  There's  water  in  that  jar,  and 
some  bread  and  dried  dates  beside  it." 

"I  want  nothing.  ...  I  wish  you  could  under- 
stand, Cymon." 

"Oh,  gods !  I  can.  Haven't  I  been  through  it 
myself?  That's  why  I  don't  want  to  see  you  make 
a  fool  of  yourself  as  I  did.  ...  It  hurts,  David. 
You're  the  only  friend  I've  got." 

David  put  his  arms  about  the  Greek's  shoulders. 

"That's  nonsense.  Why  should  it  change  our 
friendship?" 

"It  may.    And  I  don't  want  that." 

"It  won't.  Nothing  will.  .  .  .  But  I  cannot  eat, 
or  drink,  or  sleep  until  I  see  her  again." 

He  stood  up,  and  the  Greek  rose  with  him. 

Overhead  the  stars  had  begun  to  come  out.  The 
smouldering  sunset  had  left  a  feverish  afterwarmth 
in  the  air. 

"I'm  going  to  the  palace  of  Herod,"  said  David 


58  REVELATION 

"I  don't  know  yet  what  I  shall  do,  but  I  must  sec 
her — I  must  see  her  to-night." 

Cymon  was  silent.    Then  : 

"Be  careful,"  he  said.     "Shall  I  see  you  to-mor- 
row?" 

"Yes.    Why  not?" 

"I  don't  know.  .   .   .  Well— good  luck." 

"I'll  see  you  in  the  morning."  said  David. 

He  groped  his  way  to  the  stairhead  and  so  d 
into  the  dark  pit  of  the  potter's  yard.   .    .    .   Then 
out   into  the   black   tangle   of   the   crooked   streets 
that  stank  like  an  open  sepulchre. 


A  single  bronze  lamp  lit  the  long  marble  and  mal- 
achite chamber  of  the  dancing  girls.  Under  this 
lamp  and  close  to  the  peacock-blue,  star  rled 

curtains  which  had  been  drawn  wide  apart  the  g 
huddled,  talking  and  giggli- 

The  sun  had  set  barely  half  an  hour  1  ty- 

ing the  west  smouldering  like  a  charcoal  hearth: 
but  the  Judrean  hills  were  cold  and  neutral  col- 
oured now,  and  the  first  stars  pricked  the  mild 
night. 

Iris  sat  apart  from  the  others  on  the  carpet 
square,  almost  beyond  the  confines  of  the  weak 
light  of  the  single  lamp.  Her  face  was  bent  over 
an  open  box  of  olive-wood  in  which  she  kept  vari- 
ous small  and  intimate  possessions.  From  this  box 
she  took  a  ring,  which  she  seemed  to  study,  hold- 
ing it  in  the  palm  of  her  hand.  It  was  a  silver  band 
on  which  was  mounted  a  golden  scarab  of  the  size 
of  a  man's  thumb-nail.    The  fair,  perfectly  featured 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  59 

face  of  the  girl  was  intent  upon  this  ring.  ...  It 
had  been  given  to  her  nearly  a  year  before  by  a 
Numidian  archer  of  Herod's  bodyguard  who,  a 
month  or  two  later,  had  been  scourged  to  death  for 
poisoning  his  captain.  .  .  .  He  had  pleaded  with  her 
one  night  with  moist  lips  and  eyes  that  glistened 
like  an  animal's  .  .  .  and  she  had  obtained  the  ring 
from  him  and  the  secret  of  the  ring.  It  was  a  ve- 
hicle of  death — unsuspected,  subtle,  certain.  The 
golden  scarab  was  hollow,  and  in  the  cavity  was 
poison — the  immemorial  poison  with  which  the 
half-men  of  the  African  forests  envenomed  their 
arrows.  Among  them  it  was  known  by  the  name 
of  kombe,  and  once  it  had  entered  the  blood  of 
man  or  woman  death  was  certain  after  the  pas- 
sage of  a  few  hours — death  without  the  slightest 
warning  or  any  antidote. 

In  the  olive-wood  box  beside  her  knee  was  the 
scrap  of  silk  in  which  the  ring  was  always  hidden. 
Iris  wrapped  the  ring  in  it  again,  keeping  it  in 
her  lightly  closed  hand,  shut  the  box,  rose  and 
crossed  over  to  where  the  other  girls  crouched  on 
their  heels  under  the  lamp  that  was  set  in  a  niche. 
With  them  was  Astarte,  her  auburn  head  filleted 
with  silver  and  crowned  with  a  silver-white 
aigrette. 

"My  joints  seem  so  stiff  to-night,"  complained 
Helen,  "and  I  rubbed  myself  with  oil  this  morning 
till  my  palms  burned — positively  burned,  girls." 

"You're  getting  old,  dear — that's  the  trouble," 
said  Semla.  "I  hope  Leander's  there  to  wrestle  for 
them — I  feel  that  I  shall  dance  well  to-night." 

"Oh,  Leander — that  Greek  colt!  .  .  .  May  the 
gods  grant  me  my  Nubian — he's  a  man  if  vou  like !" 


60  REVELATION' 

"Valerius  is  sure  to  be  there,"  said  Amytis,  the 
young  Persian.  "Whenever  I  think  of  As  tart  e 
smacking  his  face  in  the  myrtle  court  this  morning 
I  want  to  laugh." 

"Laugh!"  said  Helen.  "It's  the  loveliest  thing 
that's  happened  for  half  a  year!  .  .  .  Astarte,  you 
little  devil!  I  could  kiss  you  for  it.  Take  care  the 
lion  doesn't  make  a  mouthful  of  you,  child — noth- 
ing rouses  a  man  quicker  than  a  .slap  on  the  ja 

Astarte  laughed,  rather  breathlessly.  She  was 
very  excited. 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  him  !"  she  said.  "I  told  him  I'd 
stab  him  if  he  touched  me  again." 

"Oh,    listen    to   her!"    said    Semla.      "In    a    week 
you'll  be   showing   us   the   rin^s   and   armlet 
given  you." 

"He's  a  fine  figure  of  a  man,*'  said  Helen.  "You're 
a  lucky  girl.  .  .  .  He'll  be  th<r<-  to -night.  Mind 
you  tell  us  all  about  it  to-morrow." 

Iris  had  joined  them,  slipping  quietly  down  u 
her  knees  between  Amytis  and  Astarte. 

A  gust  of  harp-music  came  to  them.     T  ne 

listened. 

"Is  it  time  for  us?"  said  one. 

Iris  drew  closer  to  Astarte  and  slid  a  smooth 
arm  about  her. 

"You're  nervous,  aren't  you?"  -he  said.  "I  kimw 
you  are.  .  .  .  Look,  dear,  I'll  give  you  something 
my  own  sister  shouldn't  have.  It's  an  amulet.  My 
mother  got  it  from  an  Egyptian  woman  whom  she 
hid  in  her  house  when  they  were  looking  for  her 
to  stone  her  as  a  witch.  You'll  have  nothing  but 
good  luck  as  long  as  you  wear  it,  but  be  careful 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  61 

not  to  take  it  off.  .  .  .  Wear  it  to-night,  dear. 
I'll  slip  it  on  your  hand." 

From  the  scrap  of  silk  she  unrolled  the  scara- 
baeus  ring  that  the  Numidian  archer  had  given  her 
and  fitted  it  deftly  on  to  the  forefinger  of  Astarte's 
right  hand.  Keeping  the  hand  in  her  own  she 
squeezed  it,  edging  still  closer  to  the  other  girl.  .  .  . 

As  Iris  pressed  her  hand,  nestling  up  to  her, 
Astarte  was  barely  conscious  of  the  faintest,  minut- 
est prick.  She  was  conscious  of  it,  but  her  con- 
sciousness paid  no  heed  to  it.  .  .  .  Under  tjie  pres- 
sure of  Iris's  fondling  hand  a  tiny  needle  point, 
hollow  like  a  serpent's  tooth,  had  pierced  the  skin, 
and  the  deadly  African  arrow-poison  began,  very 
slowly,  to  filter  into  the  puncture,  mingling  with 
the  blood. 

"I  wouldn't  have  given  it  to  my  own  sister," 
purred  Iris.     "It's  a  wonderful  amulet." 

("She  will  not  see  another  day.  There  is  no 
antidote."  Thus  her  thoughts  ran.  "Valerius  may 
love  her  to-night,  but  it  will  not  matter.  To-mor- 
row she  will  be  dead,  and  the  dead  are  forgotten 
as  quickly  as  a  kiss  given  in  the  dark.  When  she 
is  gone  he  will  desire  me — there  will  be  no  one  to 
distract  him.  I  shall  have  him  all  to  myself,  and  he 
will  kiss  me  as  he  kissed  her  to-day.  .  .  .  No  one 
will  know  how  she  died,  for  there  will  be  no  mark 
upon  her.") 

Astarte  extended  her  right  hand,  on  the  fore- 
finger of  which  was  the  gold  and  silver  scarabseus 
ring.  She  had  never  worn  a  ring  before.  The 
oblong  golden  facsimile  of  the  sacred  Egyptian 
beetle  hid  her  finger  to  the  first  joint. 


62  REVELATION 

"Oh— Iris!"   she   said,  "It's   beautiful.    .    .    .      I'll 
never  take  it  off !" 

"Hush!"  said  Iris.     "I've  given  it  u  because 

I  love  you  already.    ...      It  will  bring  you  luck, 
dear." 

The   other   girls   had    risen   and   were   all    leaning 
over  the  alabaster  balustrade  of  the  gallery  u; 
which  the  chamber  opened. 

"Iris!"    called    one    of    them    over    her    shoulder. 
"We  must  go  down  now.    Oh,  it's  a  sight!" 

Astarte's   heart    seemed    to   jump   to   her    throat. 
She  was  otl  her  feet  now   .    .    .   and  out  in  th< 
gallery  that  overlooked  an  inner  court  of  the  palace. 
A  staircase  led  down  into  the  court,  half  lit  1 
lamp  placed  at  the  head  of  it  and  by  another 
I'm  it.  .  .  .    Now  she  was  on  tl 
ing,     and     Iris     was     with     her.     and     Helen, 
Semla.   .    .   .     She  gazed  straight  1  her  with 

widened  eyes  that  did  not  blink,  for  it  was  m 
wonderful  than  any  dream.   .    .    . 

The  court  was  in  darkness,  but  behind   six 
fluted,  vermilion  columns,  who  ;irs 

of  gilded   lions'  head  f   the 

softly  nebulous  with  light.  Veils  of  rosy  gauze  fell 
from  the  vermilion  ceiling  to  the  pavement 
marble,  and  behind  them  stood  mass 
branched  candelabra  like  silver  trees,  a  lighted  wick 
afloat  in  every  cuplike  socket.  The  tables  were 
arranged  in  the  form  of  a  horseshoe  and  set  with 
lamp-stands  hung  with  little  pipkin-shaped  silver 
lamps.  These  lamps  were  filled  with  olive-oil  with 
which  was  mingled  oil  of  rose<.  Garlands  of 
orange-blossom  were  suspended  between  the  col- 
umns, mingling  a  subtler  fragrance  with  the  per- 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  63 

fume  that  the  lamps  burned.  Negro  and  Syrian 
slaves  came  and  went  barefooted.  Little  tripping 
tame  gazelles  picked  their  way  across  the  pure 
white  floor,  or  stood  as  though  dazzled  by  the  soft 
glare  of  the  innumerable,  small,  tongue-shaped 
flames. 

The  four  dancing  girls  mounted  two  shallow 
steps,  and  passing  between  the  vemilion  columns 
sank  down  upon  a  strip  of  carpet,  waiting.  .   .   . 

Astarte  sat  bolt  upright  upon  the  carpet  strip, 
biting  her  underlip  to  control  the  trembling  of  over- 
excitement.  In  the  house  of  Bel-Namri,  the  slave 
seller,  she  had  appeared  half  sullen,  and  languid 
with  the  langour  of  one  upon  whose  limbs  tedium 
weighs  like  lead.  Now  she  was  awake,  alive — a 
kindled  flame,  a  vibrant  nerve ;  clay  hungry  for  the 
hand  of  the  moulder. 

Someone  was  looking  at  her.  .  .  .  She  turned 
her  head  a  trifle  and  encountered  the  gaze  of 
Valerius.  His  brows  were  bound  with  a  gold  fillet. 
A  broad  golden  armlet  caught  the  light  upon  his 
upper  arm.  She  had  already  received  a  blurred  im- 
pression of  men  and  women  in  cool  white  raiment 
reclining  on  couches  on  either  side  of  the  tables 
...  if  she  was  afraid  of  him  it  was  a  pleasurable 
fear.  She  was  glad  that  he  was  there.  Light, 
perfume,  the  blatant  colouring  of  the  vermilion 
columns,  the  strangeness,  the  sound  of  harps, 
the  cynical  masculine  grey  eyes  that  seemed 
to  measure  her,  stimulated  her  senses  like  a  species 
of  intoxication. 

The  harp  music  ceased.  There  was  a  clang  of 
cymbals.  Astarte  was  aware  that  Iris  and  Helen 
had  risen,  one  splendid  as  a  shapely  goddess,  the 


64  REVELATIO 

other  exquisite  as  an  alabaster  figurine.    Their  hair 
elaborately     dressed;     their    bodies,    almond- 
white,   Beemed   to   reflect    the   light   of    the    ma 
lamp-flames  behind  t':  .  gau-  ale 

tatties  reflect  the  colour  of  r  With 

the  clean-cut  precision  of  long  practice  th<  ick 

a   mutual  dramatic  pose — <>ne  crouching,  the  other 
threatening — motionh  '.hough     frozen 

stone. 

VI 

David   emerged    from    the    reeking   hy-v.  the 

lower  city.  is  in  a  reet.    To  right 

:.nd  left  stretched  the  wall  that  encircled  t 

of  Herod  and  it^  garden  COUfl 

low,  strait  door — a  pOSteni  for  |  busil 

a  living  thing  mo\ 

The  young  man  went  right  up  ;  r  in  the 

wall,  led  by  the  indeterminat  rlight     There  i 

ound  l>ut  the  muffled,  heavy  beating  of  hi 
heart.     He  tried  the  door,  pr<  it.     It  hut 

he   d:  '.    it 

with  hi-    shoulder,  and  with  nterit  :id  the 

tenings    burst.    .     .         David    lung  rward 

through  the  narrow  doorway  in!.-  the  |  hat 

the  wall  enclosed. 

Tie  brought  up  short,  conscious  of  his  br 
-boulder,  hut   ignoring  it.    .    .    .      The   fact   that   he 
had  broken  like  a  thief  into  the 
the  Tetrarch.  and  ran  a  considerable  risk  "f  being 
taken  by  the  gunrd  and  scourged  did  not  occu- 
him.  .    .    .      He  stood  upon  a  paved  way.     Its  pallid 
glimmer    led    straight    on.    and    he    went    forward, 
moving  with  discretion.     The  perfume  of  orange- 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  65 

blossom  touched  his  nostrils.  The  marble  path 
broadened,  dividing  to  encircle  an  octagonal  foun- 
tain, bedded  in  iris  and  narcissus,  whose  central 
jet  resembled  a  trembling  silver  spear.  The  con- 
tinuous, cool  ripple  of  the  water  was  delicious  under 
the  starlight.  Cypresses  rose  like  black  obelisks. 
At  their  feet  were  set  pale  stone  benches. 

Ahead  there  was  light,  soft,  yellow,  like  amber 
or  honey.  The  bacchic  clang  of  cymbals  rever- 
berated. Beyond  an  open  colonnade,  whose  pallid 
pillar-shafts  were  like  tall  ghosts,  a  court  lay,  lit 
only  by  a  pair  of  lamps  placed  one  at  the  head  and 
the  other  at  the  foot  of  a  staircase  that  led  down 
from  a  gallery;  but  at  the  farther  end  of  this  court 
the  light  flowed  out  between  vermilion  columns 
linked  with  garlands. 

The  words  of  the  half-breed  mercenary  at  the 
gate  returned  to  David — "There's  a  feast  to-night. 
.    .    .  Girls  and  wine." 

Passing  under  the  colonnade  he  entered  the 
court,  crossed  it  with  extreme  caution,  keeping 
near  the  wall,  and  paused  in  the  shadow  of  one 
of  the  vermilion  columns,  standing  by  it.  The  light 
of  the  feast  streamed  past  him.  As  he  stood  he 
could  see  without  being  seen  by  those  within.  .   .   . 

A  pair  of  stripped  girls  were  posturing  in  the 
midst  of  the  floor.  Nearer  to  the  row  of  columns, 
upon  a  length  of  carpet,  two  other  girls  sat.  The 
red-golden  head  of  the  nearest  of  these  two  was 
filleted  with  silver.  As  she  watched  the  posturers 
the  very  poise  of  her  body  was  instinct  with  the 
breathless,  thirsty  interest  of  one  to  whose  clear 
eyes  all  things  are  new. 


66  REVELATION 

David  laid  his  hand  OH  the  (luted  column,  leaning 
against    it,    concentrating   1  upon    thi-    girl. 

A-  he  regarded  her  he  saw  pur:  it 

in  a  newly  opened   lily,  and  I  1   him 

in  spirit  before  this  purity. 

ain   the   bacchic   cymbals  clang'        Tin 
tun  •>)(]  a  moment  like  deer  then  they 

ran  hark  to  the  carpet,  laughing,  pant:; 

tr\  retan's  here,  Semla,"  ris- 

ing ill  a   Strand   of   her   !  h   her 

and  thumb.     "The  him  up  at  tl  le  in  a 

purple  tunic,  with  gold  armlc  r  than  the  one 

Valerius     wear-,    and     a     wreath     of     myrtle.    .     .     . 
They'll   spoil   tl  .    if  t: 

of  him — he'll  think  h<  ....   1!  >n- 

how." 

There  was  the  throbbing  thud     (  a  small 
;.   hand  I  drum — like   the   :       •  of 

desirou     pulses— and    the    quick    shak 
tambouri] 

Semla     rose.       She    wore    the    short' 
glove-fitting  jacket  of  gfld  t: 

I     .    her  1  md   from  her  1  It   fell  strips 

of  white  leather,  sewu  with  I 

ing   a    spe  of    skirt.      There    were    bells    at    her 

wrisN  and  ankle-  al  he   ran  out.  tinklil 

to  the  cleared  floor,  stan  .nd  flung  herself  with 

wonderful  zest  and  vitality  into  the  stomach  dance. 
For   the   first    time    sine 

had  lighted  on  her  in  tlv  her  embellished  with 

malachite   she   seemed  really  awake. 

David,    leaning    against     the    column     in    wh 
shadow  he   stood,   turned   his   e;.  the   dai 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  67 

only  for  an  instant.  lie  had  glimpsed  the  stomach 
dance  many  times  through  the  open  doors  of  disso- 
lute houses  where  dancing  girls  were  kept.  When 
he  had  paused  to  watch  it — halted  and  held  by  an 
undercurrent  of  the  baser  sort  of  curiosity — it  had 
revolted  him  even  as  he  watched,  though  a  lower 
chord  had  vibrated,  responsive,  in  defiance  of  his 
will.  ...  A  stinging  flush  of  anger  took  him.  If 
he  could,  he  would  have  interposed  a  curtain  of 
darkness  between  the  auburn-headed  girl  with  the 
aigrette  and  the  stamping,  tinkling  dancer  who 
stripped  passion  of  all  disguise,  shredding  from  it 
the  beauty — the  ardent  spirit  that  is  clean  as  lire. 
She  seemed  to  regard  the  dancer  as  a  young  child 
might  regard  the  graven  symbols  of  a  shrine,  se- 
renely, unspeculatively.  This  inviolate  innocence 
shamed  him,  inflaming  him  as  the  most  exquisite 
wantonness  could  not  have  done.  .  .  . 

Astarte  contemplated  Semla's  stomach  dance 
with  indifference.  It  was  an  ugly  dance.  She  had 
been  accustomed  to  the  sight  of  it  since  she  was 
five  years  old,  and  it  woke  neither  interest,  sex- 
consciousness,  nor  active  repulsion  in  her.  She  was 
entirely  ignorant  of  modesty,  and  therefore  of  im- 
modesty. 

Semla  gave  a  final  stamp ;  she  bowed  herself  be- 
fore the  guests,  touching  her  forehead  with  the 
tips  of  her  lingers.  Then  crossed  over  to  the  car- 
pet, walking  easily  and  with  the  undulating  move- 
ment of  a  heifer.  Pin-points  of  moisture  showed 
on  her  smooth  forehead,  and  her  lips  were  apart  in 
the  laughing  smile  of  one  who  has  done  well,  and 
is  short  of  breath. 


68  REVELATI01 

Then  it  was  that  Astarte  turned  her  head,  1 
ing  towards  the  outer  darkness  beyond  the  col- 
umns.  She  did  not  know  what  had  caused  her  to 
turn  it;  she  simply  looked  aside — and  her  eyes  en- 
countered eye-,  that  were  steady  as  those  of  an 
archer  who  draws  his  bow  against  a  lion.  .    .   . 

Pipes  trilled  and  twittered,  and  the  notes  seemed 
tremulous    as    a    liquid-golden    thread    of    rerle- 
lamp-light  upon  a  lake. 

"It's  you  now,  dear,"  said  the  soft,  cool  voice 
Iris.     "Don't  be  nervous.      The   ring's   wonderfully 
lucky.  ..." 

Astarte  understood  that  her  turn  had  come.  She 
rose  up.   .    .    .   The  young  man  of  the  market   v. 
here — watching  her,  and   the  I 
were    upon    her.       II  irt.    which    had    quieted 

iewli.it   since   she  entered  the  hall  of  the  tt 
quickened  again.     She  must  dance  well.    ()h.  won- 
derfully well!     Better  than  she  had  ever  danced  for 
Dekerto. 

Now  she  was  out  on  the  bare  marble,  which 
was  polished  so  that  it  resembled  running  water. 
She  raided  her  hands,  palm-outward,  to  her  fore- 
head, saluting  the  guests,  but  she  saw  only  Va- 
lerius, lie  was  reclining,  leaning  on  hi-  elbow: 
steadily  intent  upon  her.  She  was  particularly 
aware  of  his  jaw.  square  as  a  conqueror's.  In  all 
its  contours  his  handsome  head  was  ag    I        we. 

The  tambourines  were  shaken  as  they  had  been 
for  Semla — a  breathless  musical  jingle.  Astarte 
began  the  Dance  of  the  Ree. 

The  dance  dealt  with  a  maiden  distracted  by  the 
presence  of  a  bee  beneath  her  garment.    The  nude 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  69 

and  tapering  arms  of  the  dancer  and  her  gesturing 
hands  expressed  sudden  pain,  alarm,  and  then  a 
species  of  nervous  frenzy.  The  tambourines  rat- 
tled louder  and  faster.  Like  one  demented,  with 
drawn  brows  and  darting  hands,  she  freed  herself 
irom  the  first  of  the  clinging  transparencies  that 
swathed  her.  The  second  followed,  and  the  third. 
She  stood  with  extended  arms,  seeming  to  wait, 
breathless,  with  parted  lips.  .   .   . 

From  the  shadow  of  the  garlanded  vermilion  col- 
umn David  watched  her. 

Iris,  the  blond  Greek  posturer,  watched  her  also. 
Upon  the  forefinger  of  Astarte's  right  hand  sat 
the  golden  scarabseus  of  the  death-ring. 

The  long  moment  of  expectancy  ended.  The 
dancer  winced  as  though  under  the  sting  of  the 
still-concealed  bee.  With  a  movement  swift  as 
thought  she  rent  ofT  the  last  veil,  pretending  to 
snare  the  bee  in  a  fold  of  it,  and  crush  it  between 
her  palms. 

The  maddening  rattle  of  the  tambourines  ceased 
as  abruptly  as  it  had  begun.  The  pipes  uttered  a 
long,  tremulous,  liquid  note. 

David  still  regarded  her  unswervingly.  .  .  . 
Stars,  moons,  lilies — nothing  in  all  creation  was 
as  beautiful  as  this  girl.  She  was  a  fountain  of 
waters  for  the  ideal  thirst  of  the  spirit,  and  his 
spirit  was  thirsty — as  a  man  lost  in  the  wilderness. 
He  hated  the  assembled  guests,  the  slaves  and 
servitors.  If  it  had  been  in  his  power  to  do  so, 
he  would  have  smitten  them  with  blindness.  The 
frank  innocence  of  the  dancer  shone  like  a  lamp 
embossed    with    naked   cupids,   but   the   eyes    that 


70  REVELATION 

watched  her  were  unforgivable — a  rank  offence. 
He  burned  and  stiffened  as  he  stood,  drawing 
breath  through  dilated  nostrils,  and  the  hand  that 
hung  at  his  side  contracted.  He  was  divided  be- 
tween worship  that  glowed,  thirsted,  and  I 
ashamed,  and  furious  resentment. 

As  the  Grecian  pipes  quavered  liquidly  Astarte 
was  conscious  of  such  triumphant  happiness  that 
she  could  have  laughed  right  out.  She  had  done 
well — she  was  about  to  do  better.  Her  silver- 
scaled  and  gauzy  diaphanous  trappings  set  her  off 
wonderfully.  Valerius  was  present,  seemingly  en- 
grossed with  her,  and  the  young  man  of  the  mar- 
ket also,  who  had  followed  her  that  morning.  S 
extended  her  arms,  tilted  her  head  a  little  back,  and 
the  trained  muscles  of  her  supple  body  began 
twitch  and  creep  and  ripple  as  though  gifted — in- 
credibly— with  independent  life.  .    .    . 

The  pipes  twittered.  All  eyes  were  upon  the  girl 
in  the  midst  of  the  pale  floor.  The  fingers  of  her 
outstretched  hands  moved  as  though  she  were 
plucking  at  invisible  strings  or  beckoning  mysti- 
cally. It  was  unique,  extraordinary,  and  she  v. 
very  beautiful. 

The  display  ended.  The  dancer  drew  a  deep,  re- 
laxing breath.  All  radiant,  conscious  of  success  she 
saluted  the  guests  again. 

At  that  moment  a  rain  of  roses  descended  upon 
the  feasters.  Most  of  these  were  by  this  time 
alted  with  wine.  There  were  cries,  hand-clap- 
pings, and  the  high-pitched,  immoderate  laughter 
of  partly  intoxicated  women.  Someone  tossed  a 
rose  at  Astarte  and  immediately  a  dozen  fell  about 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  71 

her.     She  stooped,  laughing,  and  flung  them  back. 

"Put  out  the  lights !"  commanded  a  man's  voice. 

Instantly  the  slaves  stationed  by  the  silver  can- 
delabra began  to  extinguish  the  lighted  wicks. 
The  little  lamps  of  the  table  lamp  stands  were 
blown  out.  With  a  swiftness  that  was  magical  the 
place  darkened.  Astarte  stood  on  the  spot  where 
she  had  danced,  half-laughing,  expectant.  The 
cymbals  clashed,  the  tambourines  rattled,  and  pan- 
pipes were  blown.  A  tinkle  of  little  bells  caused 
her  to  turn  her  head,  and  she  saw  Semla,  the  Sy- 
rian stomach  dancer,  with  her  arms  about  the  neck 
of  a  young  blond  Greek,  handsome  and  half  drunk. 
She  was  hanging  upon  him  as  though  he  was  the 
very  source  of  her  life,  and  he  was  in  the  act  of 
bending  his  head  to  rind  her  lifted  lips.  .  .  .  The 
last  lamp-flame  went  out  like  a  snuffed  star;  the 
smiting  cymbals  met  in  a  final  clang.  The  hall  of 
the  feast  was  in  complete  darkness,  but  the  court 
before  it  was  touched  with  uncertain  light  by  the 
two  lamps  at  the  head  and  foot  of  the  staircase. 

In  the  darkness  a  hand  touched  her  arm.  She 
started  as  violently  as  if  a  knife  had  pricked  her. 
The  hand  closed  on  her — shifted  with  a  sure  and 
instant  quickness  to  her  wrist,  and  tightened  upon 
it.  At  once,  and  with  complete  certainty,  she 
knew  that  this  was  Valerius. 

She  uttered  nothing.  His  left  hand  came  upon 
her  other  wrist.  She  was  held  as  firmly  as  a  cap- 
tive whose  escape  would  be  inadmissible.  He  spoke 
from  the  darkness. 

"You  struck  me  this  morning.  .  .  .  Children  who 
rebel  are  punished.  I  am  going  to  punish  you, 
Astarte." 


72  REVELATION" 

She  seemed  to  yield,  suddenly,  to  soundle.-s 
laughter  that  shook  her  like  hysteria.  Her  voice, 
when  she  answered,  laughed  at  him  out  of  the 
dark. 

"How?''  she  said. 

"I'll  show  you!" 

He  held  her  now  a>  he  had  held  her  in  the  foun- 
tain,  but    more    mercilessly.    His    breath    was 
against  her  face,  and  she  smelt  wine. 

"I  want  you!"  he  said.  His  speech  was  clean- 
cut  as  in  the  morning,  but  something  in  his  in- 
tonation betrayed  the  drink  that  he  had  taken. 
"And  I  take  what  1  want.  Astarte." 

His  arms  crushed  her.  She  felt  that  she  must 
gasp  for  breath. 

"I  take  what  I  want!"  he  said  again. 

She  was  aware  of  his  kisses.     His  mouth  v. 
pitiless  as  the  hand  of  a  despoiler.  had  been 

instinct  with  warm  excitement,  eager,  and  fear- 
lessly curio:  w  resentment  sprang,  full- 
grown,  into  life. 

"I  hate  you — I  hate  your  kisse- 

But  it  was  not  his  kisses  that  she  hated — it  v. 
his  attitude  of  mastership  that  took  and  then  would 
throw   aside.     Her  pride   fought   against   him   like 
a  frantic  animal  in  a  net. 

"I  don't  care  a  fig  whether  you  hate  me  or  love 
me — I  want  you  !" 

She  began  to  struggle  with  all  her  strength,  si- 
lently, with  clenched  teeth.  .   .  . 

VII 

As  the  lamps  in  the  hall  of  the  feast  were  extin- 
guished one  after  another  with  wonderful  rapidity, 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  73 

David  remained,  motionless,  by  the  garlanded  col- 
umn. He  saw  a  young  woman,  her  black  hair 
dressed  in  Greek  fashion,  discard  her  upper  gar- 
ment, and  crush  a  cluster  of  roses  against  her 
breasts,  swaying  with  the  giddiness  of  wine.  Lit- 
tle bells  tinkled  sweetly,  and  following  the  sound 
with  his  eyes  he  saw  the  girl  who  had  danced  the 
stomach  dance  offering  her  mouth  to  a  young 
drunken  Greek.  Then  darkness  came — warm 
darkness,  dense  as  back  wool.  There  was  a  shuf- 
fling— the  bare  feet  of  the  retiring  slaves  and  mu- 
sicians. A  girl  laughed  hysterically — ha-ha,  ha-ha- 
ha.  Then  something  fell  and  there  was  the  tinkling 
sound  of  shivered  glass. 

"I  hate  you!"  said  a  voice — a  girl's  voice,  breath- 
less, half-suppressed — carrying  conviction. 

A  quiver  ran  through  David's  body.  The  voice 
was  strange  to  him,  yet  he  was  clutched  by  an  in- 
stinctive certainty.  ...  He  felt  the  blood  go  to 
his  head,  and  it  was  a  flood  of  pure,  elemental  rage. 
Abandoning  the  column  he  went  forward  into  the 
hall  of  the  feast. 

He  paused.  He  felt  rather  than  heard  the  near- 
ness of  a  locked,  straining  struggle.  He  groped. 
.  .  .  There  was  the  crash  of  an  overturned  piece 
of  furniture — a  couch  or  table.  In  the  darkness 
someone  brushed  against  his  outstretched  hand — 
checked,  turned  to  him,  clung.  .  .  .  He  was  con- 
cious  of  contact  with  satin-smooth  skin,  moist  as 
though  from  exertion,  of  loose-falling  hair,  of  a 
body  shaken  with  distressful  breathing  and  pressed 
against  him. 

"Don't    let    him "    said    a    rapid,    breathless 

voice.    "Don't.  ..." 


74  REVELATION 

It  was  the  voice  that  had  gasped,  "I  hate  you! 

For  the  first  time  in  David's  life  the  arms  of  a 
girl  were  flung  about  him,  clasping  him.  And  he 
knew  her  as  though  it  were  high  noon  for  the  girl 
of  the  red-gold  hair. 

"No  man  shall  touch  you — I  swear  it  bef<  re 
God!" 

He  hardly  recognized  his  own  voice.  He  had 
spoken  aloud,  and  as  though  he  challenged  the 
glittering  ramparts  of  the  embattled  world.  As 
he  uttered  the  word  "God"  he  half  expected  the 
roof  with  its  ropes  of  garlands  to  crumble  and  fall 
inward  revealing  the  remote,  unsullied  stars — leav- 
ing him  and  the  girl  who  held  to  him  alone  among 
the  ruins  of  the  banquet  hall  under  the  high  dome 
of  the  night. 

"Who  in  Hades  are  you?"  said  a  man's  voice 
quite  close  to  him.  There  was  a  curious  intonation 
that  hinted  at  wine  in  it,  and  it  was  a  trifle  thick, 
as  though  passion  had  taken  the  speaker  by  the 
throat. 

Instantly  David  saw  red — blood-red,  and  his  per- 
ceptions blurred.  .  .  .  He  was  aware  that  the  girl 
had  released  him,  and  was  now  behind  him.  He 
lunged  forward  and  his  shoulder  struck  the  square 
shoulder  of  a  man.  He  was  insane  with  rage — the 
rage  that  kills  with  naked  hands.  .  .  .  They 
swayed  to  and  fro,  each  seeking  to  throw  the  other, 
with  no  breath  for  words.  The  man  whom  David 
had  grappled  with  was  a  shade  heavier  than  him- 
self, and  had  evidently  been  trained  at  one  time 
in  the  tricks  and  holds  of  wrestling;  but  he  had 
drunk   without    discretion,    and    furv   had    trebled 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  75 

David's  supple  strength.  They  rocked  this  way 
and  that,  straining.  .    .    . 

A  few  paces  away  Astarte  stood,  listening,  try- 
ing to  see.  Her  lips  were  drawn  back,  wolf-fashion 
from  her  even  teeth.  Her  desert  blood  exulted 
frankly  in  the  struggle.  .  .  .  She  wanted  the  young 
man  to  ovecome  Valerius.  Valerius  had  attempted 
to  master  her,  and  she  had  fought  him  with  all  her 
strength,  hating  him  for  obliging  her  to  fight.  He 
had  not  wooed,  or  flattered,  or  entreated  her — he 
had  exerted  his  sheer  physical  force  in  order  to 
exhaust  her.  She  was  not  afraid  now,  and  the  sense 
of  bitter,  virile  effort  that  seemed  to  set  the  em- 
bracing darkness  tingling  excited  her  like  the  reck- 
less clash  of  cymbals. 

There  was  the  thud  of  a  fall.  .  .  .  David  had 
thrown  his  adversary — thrown  him  heavily.  He 
panted,  relaxed,  savagely  triumphant. 

Someone  touched  him. 

"Come  away  quickly!  Valerius  is  captain  of  the 
guard.    If  they  take  you  they  will  kill  you !" 

Hands  fluttered  about  him,  urgent,  nervous. 

The  significance  of  the  thing  that  he  had  done, 
and  its  possibilities,  dawned  on  David.  He  must 
act  quickly.  .  .  .  He  caught  the  groping  hands, 
drew  the  girl  to  him,  gathered  her  up,  and  turned 
to  the  pair  of  flickering,  beckoning  lights  that  in- 
dicated the  staircase  leading  up  out  of  the  court. 
The  girl  lay  easily  in  his  arms.  He  gained  the  row 
of  columns  that  fronted  the  court,  descended  the 
two  shallow  steps,  and  paused  a  moment. 

"Up  the  staircase !" 

At  the  head  of  the  stair  he  paused  again. 


76  REVELATION 

"Now  to  the  left  along  the  gallery,  and  between 
the  curtains." 

In  the  long  chamber  that  lay  behind  the  cuta; 
a   single   lamp  burned   in   a   niche.     The   plac< 
empty.     The   girl   whom   David  carried   slipped 
the  floor.     She  gave  herself  a  little  shake  like  a  cat 
that    has    set    its    paw    in    spilt    writer,    caught    I 
wrist,   and   drew    him    to    where    a    stri] 
hung,    its    fringes   just    touching   the    marble.      Be- 
hind   this    carpet    strip,   completely   hidden,    was 
deep  alcove,  its  farther  end  inlet  with  a  square  pane 
of  lattice-work   through    which   filtered   milk-white 
moonlight,  for  the   full   moon  was  rising  over  the 
Mount   of  Olives. 

"Don't  speak!"  said  the  girl,  still  in  a  half  whis- 
per.   "Listen.  ..." 

She  leaned  toward-  the  hanging  carpet  strip,  her 
head  inclined.  The  bland  light  of  the  moon,  level 
now  with  the  lattice,  sprinkled  her.     Her  :ied 

hair  unfilleted  now,  showered  down.  David 
watched  her  like  a  person  wrapt  in  an  incredible 
dream.     The  possibility  of  capture.  ging  and 

death,  as  far  as  his  thought  was  concerned  with 
had  receded  to  an  immeasurable  distance.  It  • 
petty  as  the  singing  of  a  gnat;  di.  from  all 

vital  matters.  .    .    . 

A  sound  came  to  them  from  below.     The  listen- 
ing girl  gave  the  young  man  one  quick  look — then 
she  was  gone.     He  heard  the  pat-pat  of  her  fl 
bare  feet.  .   .   . 

Springing  from  the  screened  alcove  Astarte  ran 
across  the  empty  chamber  and  out  into  the  gallery. 
A  torch,  held  high  above  his  head  by  a  tall,  sta- 
tionary Nubian,  lit  up  the  court  below.    There  were 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  77 

soldiers,  and  in  the  midst,  Valerius,  gesturing,  giv- 
ing curt,  savage  orders.  Astarte  cowered  down  by 
the  parapet  of  alabaster  screen  work,  peering 
through  it.  Anxiety  such  as  she  had  never  felt 
before  set  her  heart  hammering.  The  young  man 
who  had  wrestled  with  Valerius  on  her  account 
must  not  be  taken  by  the  soldiers — she  must  pre- 
vent that  by  any  means.  .  .  .  The  armed  guard  in 
the  court  separated,  a  number  filing  out  into  the 
gardens  carrying  lanterns  and  accompanied  by 
Valerius  and  one  of  his  officers,  and  the  rest  pour- 
ing up  the  staircase  that  led  to  the  gallery. 

Astarte  sprang  up  like  a  touched  hare,  ran  to  the 
lamp  that  burned  just  inside  the  chamber  of  the 
dancing  girls,  blew  it  out,  drew  the  spangled  cur- 
tains together,  and  let  herself  lapse  to  the  floor, 
lying  on  her  side  like  something  cast  down  and 
abandoned. 

She  heard  the  soldiers  approach,  pass  within 
three  feet  of  the  place  where  she  was  lying,  and 
go  on  along  the  gallery.  As  they  passed  she  counted 
them,  taking  note  of  the  footsteps — one,  two,  three, 
four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight,  nine,  ten,  eleven, 
twelve.  Then  a  little  break,  and  then  the  footsteps 
of  the  thirteenth.  They  approached,  came  level 
with  the  drawn  curtains,  paused.  Astarte  held  her 
breath.  .  .  .  The  curtains  were  jerked  apart,  the 
yellow  light  of  a  lantern  fell  upon  her  face.  In- 
voluntarily she  moved  her  head,  looking  upward. 
A  half-t>reed  soldier  in  gilt  trappings  and  with  a 
short  Roman  sword  at  his  flank  stood  between  the 
parted  curtains. 

"Hullo !"  he  said,  "are  you  the  girl  that  the  man 
we're  looking  for  carried  off?" 


78  REVELATION 

Astarte  blinked  at  the  lantern  light.  She  mois- 
tened her  lips,  which  were  a  little  dry. 

"Yes.  .  .  .  He — he  heard  the  guard  coming  and 
he  cast  me  down  here.  Then  he  escaped  along  the 
gallery.  I  do  not  know  which  door  he  went 
through — I  was  stunned." 

The  man  raised  his  lantern,  seeming  to  scrutinize 
the  place. 

"Umph!  I'll  take  a  look  round  here  all  the  same," 
he  said. 

Astarte  half  raised  herself  suddenly  from  the 
floor. 

"He's  not  here.  He  went  along  the  gallery." 

In  her  voice  there  was  an  imperative,  arresting 
note.  She  had  raised  one  hand  as  though  to  check 
any  advance.  The  light  of  the  lifted  lantern  re- 
vealed her  fully. 

There  was  a  moment  or  two  of  silence. 

"Strike  me  blind!  I'd  carry  you  off  myself, 
Venus,  if  I'd  half  a  chance." 

He  set  the  lantern  on  the  floor  and  went  down 
on  one  knee  beside  Astarte,  bringing  his  face  close 
to  hers.  He  was  pock-marked,  wide  across  the 
jaws,  and  with  evil  black  eyes  that  held  a  devil. 

"Meet  me  to-morrow  night  an  hour  after  sunset 
behind  the  guard-room  and  I  won't  search  this 
place.  But  if  you  don't  come  I'll  get  even  with 
you.  Venus — I'll  get  vou  scourged.  Will  vou  meet 
me?" 

"Yes "  said  Astarte.     "Yes.  ..." 

"That's  right.  Play  me  fair  and  I'll  do  the  same 
by  you." 

His  hand  fell  on  her.  closing  upon  her  arm,  tight- 
ening so  that  she  winced  ever  so  slightly.     She  did 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  79 

not  shrink  or  lower  her  eyes.  Obeying  the  subtle, 
untaught  instincts  of  her  womanhood  she  raised 
her  face  a  trifle,  giving  him  a  half-veiled,  liquid 
look.  In  the  next  moment  his  mouth  was  upon 
hers. 

It  was  a  brutal  kiss,  infinitely  coarser  than  any 
that  she  had  received  from  Valerius.  Her  whole 
being  shrieked  out  against  it,  but  she  did  not  strain 
away  or  seek  to  turn  her  face.  .  .  .  Footsteps 
sounded  in  the  gallery.  Still  holding  her  the  man 
raised  his  head. 

"That  was  a  good  one,  Venus.  I'll  tell  'em  I've 
beaten  this  covert  through  and  through.  We'll  be 
good  friends,  you  and  I." 

He  released  her,  picked  up  the  lantern,  stepped 
out  into  the  gallery,  and  drew  the  curtains.  .  .  . 
The  sandaled  feet  of  the  soldiers  made  a  measured 
trampling  upon  the  staircase  as  they  descended. 

Astarte  lay  prostrate  upon  the  cold  marble  for 
some  moments.  She  writhed  dumbly,  rubbing  her 
clenched  fists  against  her  pillaged  lips.  Rage  and 
disgust  possessed  her.  But  she  had  achieved  her 
purpose. 

Presently  she  rose  up.  The  place  was  entirely 
dark,  ifor  she  had  blown  out  the  lamp.  She  went 
carefully  with  outstretched  arms  down  the  length 
of  the  long  chamber,  caught  the  glimmer  of  moon- 
light at  the  edges  of  the  hanging  carpet,  and  re- 
entered the  alcove. 

The  young  man  was  standing  as  she  had  left  him. 
He  looked  at  her,  but  did  not  speak.  Astarte  leaned 
against  the  wall,  extending  one  arm  along  it,  palm 
downward. 

"The  soldiers  have  gone,"  she  said.     "They  will 


80  REVELATION 

not  come  here.  .    .    .  One  of  them  spoke  to  me.     I 
had  to  promise  that   I   would  meet  him  to-n. 
night    or    he    would    have  1    and 

found  you.     Jiut   I  will  not  meet  him  !     1   hate  him 
worse  than  Valerius!     He  kissed  mi  h!" 

A  twitching  shud 

"He— ki  you?" 

It  was  as  though  she  had  casually  mentioned  the 
violation  of  a  sanctuary. 

Astarte  had  closed  her  eve-  for  an  in  as  she 

shuddered  under  her  strong  d 
and  encountered  directly  tl. 
as  those  of  an  archer  who  di 
a  lion.  .    .    . 

In  the  diffused  moonlight  his  face  was  clear 
her.  A  peculiar  thrill,  hone  tick  through 

the  girl.    Her  sen  urred  by  the  excitemenl 

the  feast,  and  by  the  ;  a  of  Valerius,  panted 

realization.     The  face  in  the  moonlight  mi  ave 

been  that  of  a  worshipper  kneeling  with  exten 
arms  before  an  enshrined  divinity.  .    .    .  "He  : 
handsome,''  said  the  quick  whi  rte's  c 

sciousness,    and     the     honey-sweet     thrill     struck 
through  her. 

"You  are  more  beautiful  than  anything  on  earth 
— more  wonderful  than  a  miracle.  When  I  follow 
you  this  morning  it  was  as  though  I  was  draw  i 
cord.     I  came  here  to-night  because  I  knew  that  it 
would  be  impossible  for  me  to  sleep  until  I  had  seen 
you  again.    The  abominations  of  this  place  cannot 
touch  you — any  more  than  the  Philistines  were  | 
mitted  to   violate  the  ark  of  God.     If  you   should 
come  face  to  face  with  a  lion  in  the  wilderness  he 
would  turn  aside  from  the  path  and  cringe  before 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  81 

you  like  a  chastised  dog.  I  have  no  right  to  be 
here — to  look  at  you,  yet  I  cannot  go." 

There  was  a  ring  of  utter  sincerity  in  the  rapid 
words.  The  face  in  the  moonlight  was  that  of  the 
young  worshipper  upon  his  knees  who  is  aware,  in 
spite  of  his  passionate  reverence,  that  his  divinity 
is  capable — however  remotely — of  granting  the  un- 
imaginable bliss  of  union. 

Astarte  uttered  nothing.  Her  lips  were  a  little 
apart.  Her  eyes  had  mingled  with  the  eyes  of  the 
young  man  at  the  moment  when  she  opened  them 
after  her  involuntary  shudder.  She  seemed  to  be 
drawn  down  a  smooth,  swift  current  to  the  lip  of  an 
inevitable  plunge — or  was  it  that  she  was  drawing 
him  as  the  white  moon  draws  the  depths  of  the 
sea? 

Neither  was  aware  of  any  actual  movement  to- 
wards the  other,  yet,  in  a  breathless  silence,  their 
lips  met.  .   .   . 

Astarte's  smooth  arms  were  about  David's  neck. 
They  were  locked  together  in  the  shattered  moon- 
light that  looked  with  a  level  silver  eye  through 
the  cris-crossing  lattice-work. 

The  inconceivable  had  happened,  the  miracle  had 
taken  place — the  divinity  had  descended  from  her 
shrine  and  given  herself  to  the  arms  of  her  devotee. 
David  had  felt  that  if  he  could  embrace  her  feet  he 
would  touch  the  very  summit  of  his  desire,  yet  now 
he  held  her  as  he  had  held  no  woman  all  his  life, 
taking  the  honey  of  her  lips,  that  were  cool  as  a 
flower.  ...   It  had  been  irresistible — involuntary. 

Astarte  clove  to  the  young  man  instinctively,  un- 
questioning,   thirsty    for    caresses.      She    had    re- 


82  REVELATION 

ceived  and  returned  his  kisses  wordlessly  for  some 
moments  before  he  spoke. 

"I  should  kiss  your  feet — yet  you  have  given  me 
your  lips." 

His  voice  was  unsteady,  and  it  had  deepened. 

"You  shall  not  kiss  my  feet — a  dog  might  do 
that !  .  .  .  I  am  Astarte.  I  was  only  brought  here 
this  morning.  .    .    .  What  is  your  name?" 

"I  am  called  David.  .  .  .  Since  I  saw  you  this 
morning  I  have  neither  eaten  nor  slept.  You  looked 
at  me  three  times  when  I  followed  you  from  the 
market.    Am  I — am  I  anything  to  you?" 

"Oh — yes,  ..."  said  Astarte,  her  perfectly 
curved  lips  close  to  his.    "I  am  sure  I  love  you." 

David's  arms  tightened  about  her.  He  kissed  her 
mouth  again.  Then  a  barely  perceptible  pause,  and 
then — involuntarily  as  it  seemed — he  had  twice 
kissed  her  shoulder. 

Astarte  drew  a  quick,  caught-back  breath  be- 
tween her  teeth.  She  was  held  now  as  closely  as 
Valerius  had  held  her. 

Passion  swept  through  David  as  a  wave  of  the 
sea  sweeps  up  a  shelving  beach  to  the  highest  tide- 
mark,  and  beyond. 

"I   love  you — I  worship  you !    .    .    .    I — I   want 

you !" 

His  own  voice  was  strange  to  him.  It  would 
have   sounded  stranger  to  Cymon,  to  his   mother, 

to  Rama.  .   .   . 

An  inconsiderable  human  noise  began  and  ended 
somewhere  near  at  hand — the  clat-clat  of  a  sandal, 
the  grounding  of  a  spear  butt,  or  perhaps  the  pro- 
test of  a  turning  hinge. 

"You you  must  go,"  whispered  Astarte.     "You 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  83 

must  go  now.  They  must  not  find  you  here.  .  .  ., 
If  they  find  you  they  will  kill  you!" 

"And  you?    Am  I  to  leave  you  here?" 

"I  don't  know.  .  .  .  I — I  would  rather  go  with 
you." 

"If  you  desire  to  go,  I  will  go ;  if  you  remain,  I 
will  remain.  .   .   .     You  are  my  life!" 

Astarte  clung  to  him. 

"Let  us  go  now.  ...     I  know  the  best  way." 

She  caught  his  hand  and  they  passed  from  the 
alcove  into  the  pitch-dark,  deserted  chamber  of 
the  dancing  girls.  Here  Astarte  tripped  over  a 
dropped  length  of  satin  stuff,  which  she  wrapped 
deftly  about  herself,  for  there  was  nothing  upon 
her  save  a  spangled  loin  belt  and  the  almost  trans- 
parent skirt  of  silver  gauze.  She  found  the  cedar- 
wood  door ;  it  opened  readily,  and  they  stood  in  the 
moonlight  on  the  exterior  gallery  whence  the 
flight  of  steps  led  down  into  the  court  of  the 
orange-trees  and  myrtles. 

There  was  no  sound  here  save  the  flutter  of  a 
whispering  night  wind  in  the  leaves,  but  the  un- 
clouded ivory  moonlight  seemed  a  flood  of  peril 
to  the  girl.  She  was  afraid — not  coweringly,  sick- 
eningly  afraid,  but  possessed  by  an  alert  and 
breathless  fear  that  put  an  exquisite  edge  on  all 
her  senses.  Very  quickly  and  quietly  they  went 
down  the  flight  of  steps,  holding  each  other's 
hands,  and  across  the  court  of  the  myrtles ;  and  in 
this  manner,  by  flowering  tree,  and  fountain,  and 
cypress,  and  lawn — pausing,  and  waiting,  and 
listening,  and  going  softly  forward — they  gained 
the  small  door  in  the  outer  wall  that  David  had 
forced  a  good  two  hours  before. 


84  REVELATION 

A  soldier  was  stationed  there.  The  head  of  the 
lance  on  which  he  leaned  gleamed  in  the  moon- 
light. 

Astarte's  quick-beating  heart  seemed  to  stop. 
They  were  in  the  ebony  shadow  of  a  cypress,  and 
this  shadow  fell  almost  to  the  stationary  soldier's 
feet. 

"Wait,"  said  David  beneath  his  breath.  "Don't 
scream.  ...     It  will  be  all  right." 

He  lowered  himself  until  he  was  prostrate  upon 
the  close-shorn  grass,  then  crept  forward  snake- 
like. Astarte  followed  him  with  widened  eyes  that 
were  fixed  like  those  of  a  cat  stalking  a  bird.  .  .  . 
When — having  crawled  to  within  a  few  yards  of 
him — David  rose  up  out  of  the  shadow  and  sprang 
upon  the  soldier,  grappling  with  him,  she  uttered 
no  sound. 

The  soldier's  lance  fell  clattering  upon  the  paved 
path  and  the  two  rolled  together.  David's  hands 
were  at  the  man's  gullet,  so  there  was  no  cry  for 
help.  They  seemed  to  struggle  for  many  minutes, 
thrashing  this  way  and  that,  but  actually  the  time 
that  elapsed  before  David  rose  from  the  pavement 
where  the  other  lay  and  came  across  the  grass  to 
Astarte,  breathing  heavily,  was  verv  short. 

"It's  all  right."  he  said."  "I  don't 'think  I've  killed 
him,  but  lie  won't  move  for  a  while.  .  .  .  We  must 
go  quickly." 

"You're  not  hurt?" 

"No.  I  could  kill  any  man  with  my  left  hand 
to-night.', 

Then  they  were  through  the  door  in  the  wall 
and  the  tainted  night  smells  of  the  city  were  in 
their  nostrils. 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  85 

"I  will  carry  you,"  said  David.  "Your  feet  shall 
not  touch  the  stones  of  the  streets." 

He  gathered  her  up,  bearing  her  without  effort. 
...  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  desire  of  the  whole 
world,  incarnate,  lay  in  his  arms. 

"Let  me  walk.  I  am  not  a  child ;  I  am  too  heavy 
to  be  carried,"  said  Astarte  presently. 

"Should  a  man  separate  himself  from  his  own 
heart?"  said  David,  very  low.  "I  have  everything 
that  the  world  contains  as  long  as  I  hold  you." 

The  house-court  where  Naomi  and  Dinah  had 
stood  and  talked  that  morning  while  Rama  bore 
Tobias  upon  her  hip  was  empty  under  the  white 
moonlight,  save  for  a  trio  of  mongrel  dogs — scare- 
crows of  skin  and  bones — that  slept  in  the  corners. 
The  curiously  twisted  acacia-tree  that  grew  at  the 
foot  of  the  flight  of  stone  steps  leading  up  to  the 
two-leaved  door  cast  a  light,  lace-like  shadow. 

David  ascended  the  steps,  pushed  the  door  so  that 
it  opened  inward  with  scarcely  any  noise,  and  set 
Astarte,  very  gently,  upon  her  feet.  Then  he  closed 
the  door,  bringing  the  two  leaves  together  carefully 
so  that  there  was  no  chink  between  them. 

Moonlight  entered  through  the  lattice-work  of  a 
single  window.  The  room,  of  moderate  size,  was 
bare  save  for  a  mattress  upon  the  matted  floor. 
David  came  close  to  the  girl  and  spoke. 

"This  is  mine.  ...  I  wish  with  all  my  soul  that 
I  could  have  brought  you  to  a  house  of  gold  with 
rafters  of  cedar!" 

Astarte  did  not  answer  him  directly. 

"Oh— you  are  hurt!"  she  said.  "There  is  blood 
on  your  hand  1" 


86  REVELATION 

"It  is  nothing.  The  man  I  threw  had  a  knife. 
... 

"Nothing!     See  how  much  it  has  bled!     It  li 
stained  my  arm  where  you  held  me." 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  David  again  in  a  lower  voice. 
"I  would  give  all  the  blood  that  is  in  my  body  if 
it  was  in  your  service — for  you." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"You — you  will  need  to  sleep,"  said  David.  "I '' 

He  turned  his  face  instinctively  towards  the  door. 

Astarte  put  out  her  hand  quickly  and  touched  him. 
This  place  was  strange;  she  did  not  want  to  be 
alone  .  .  .  and  she  wished  that  he  would  kiss  her 
again. 

"Do  you  love  me?"  she  asked. 

He  turned  his  face  to  her  like  a  flash.  It  was  a 
face  of  hunger — hunger  of  flesh  and  spirit.  It  was 
evident  that  he  held  himself  in  check  with  difficulty 
— like  a  rider  fighting  with  an  unschooled  horse. 

"I — I  worship  you!" 

Astarte  shivered  slightly,  for  the  night  had  be- 
come colder,  and  the  supple  satin  stuff  that  sheathed 
her  loosely  slipped  from  her  shoulders,  and  so  down- 
ward, lying  about  her  feet.  In  the  shattered  moon- 
light she  seemed  Beauty's  very  self  in  the  flesh, 
with  hair  like  a  cataract  of  red-gold.  .  .  .  She 
looked  at  him  without  any  coquetry,  but  with  a 
sort  of  breathless,  childlike  anticipation,  for  she 
wanted  his  kisses  and  she  felt,  instinctively,  that 
she  was  irresistible. 

"Oh,  God!  .   .   .     You  are  a  miracle!" 
She  was  in  his  arms  again,  clinging  to  him.  yield- 
ing, love-hungry,  simple  as  Nature  in  her  desires — 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  87 

the  desires  of  the  Spring — and  equally  innocent  of 
shame. 

The  rein  broke — the  unschooled  horse  threw  up 
its  head  and  plunged  forward,  free.  .   .   . 

"You  are  mine !"  said  David,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  golden  fire  ran  in  his  veins  and  that  flesh  and 
spirit  drank  from  the  cup  of  immortal — of  supreme 
— attainment. 

VIII 

It  was  morning.  Early  sunlight  gilded  the  shabby 
two-leaved  door  at  the  head  of  the  flight  of  un- 
swept  stone  steps.  To  the  doorpost  was  affixed  a 
little  metal  cylinder  containing  a  text  from  the  Law 
of  Moses,  written  on  a  fragment  of  parchment. 

The  door  opened  and  David  stood  on  the  thres- 
hold. The  young  sunlight  met  him  and  he  blinked 
for  a  moment.  Then  he  drew  a  deep  breath,  looking 
directly  into  the  level  gold  of  the  new  day.  He 
was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  strength,  of  assurance, 
of  incommunicable,  wine-like  pride,  such  as  a  young 
god  might  have  experienced.  .    .   . 

A  woman  came  out  into  the  court  from  the 
doorway  where  the  ragged  curtain  hung — Naomi, 
the  widow.     She  turned  her  head  and  saw  David. 

"Oh — there  you  are !  I  had  fresh  lettuce  and 
lentils  ready  for  you  last  night.  Where  were  you? 
.   .   .     It's  not  right  to  treat  your  mother  so." 

"I  am  sorry,  mother,"  said  David,  speaking 
quietly  from  the  top  of  the  steps.  "You  don't 
understand.  ..." 

He  came  down  towards  her,  invested  with  an  in- 
definable, settled  assurance  that  was  unmistakable. 
Yesterday  he  had  been  a  boy,  to-day  he  was  a  man. 


88  REVELATION 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "very  much  has  happened 
since  I  saw  you.  There  are  several  things  that  you 
must  know.  ..." 

*J*  *l*  1»  1*  ff 

Rama  was  on  her  knees  putting  a  shirt  upon  the 
toddler,  Tobias.  A  tame  pigeon  pecked  about  the 
floor  of  the  half-lit,  dishevelled  room.  Overhead  a 
cord  was  stretched  from  side  to  side,  across  which 
hung  various  garments.  Some  outcry  came  to  her 
indistinctly  from  without,  but  she  paid  no  attention 
to  it.  .   .   . 

"Rama !" 

"Yes,''  said  the  girl,  lifting  her  face. 

Dinah  had  entered.  She  stood  just  within  the 
room. 

"It's  dreadful,"  she  said.  "Naomi's  in  a  terrible 
way.    Didn't  you  hear  her?" 

"Hear  what?    What's  happened?" 

"David's  brought  home  a  Gentile  dancing  girl 
and  he's  told  his  mother  he's  going  to  marry  her. 
.  .  .  It's  dreadful.  ...  I  must  go  down  again. 
He  won't  listen  to  his  mother,  and  she's  taking  on 
so.  ..." 

Her  dull  voice  had  not  brightened,  nor  hei  sick 
eyes.    She  turned  slowly  and  went  out. 

Rama  got  up.  For  some  moments  she  simply 
stood  looking  towards  the  doorway  where  Dinah 
had  appeared.  Tobias  began  to  grizzle,  tugging  at 
her  garment.  His  brief  shirt  exposed  his  fat,  bandy 
legs  which  were  marked  with  the  tiny  red  punc- 
tures of  flea  bites.  She  turned  and  picked  him  up 
— automatically,  as  it  seemed — setting  him  astride 
her  hip.  ...  A  single  lamp,  burning  a  pure  and 
perfumed  oil,  had  lit  the  narrow  room  of  her  life 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  89 

shut  right  away  from  the  warm'  sun  of  joy ;  and 
that  lamp  had  been  suddenly  extinguished.  .    .    . 

She  went  across  to  the  doorway,  bearing  the  child, 
and  down  a  gritty  stair,  descending  carefully  from 
step  to  step  with  a  sort  of  dazed  solicitude.  .  .  . 
David  had  brought  home  a  dancing  girl  and  he  was 
going  to  take  her  for  his  wife.  She  believed  it,  but 
she  could  not  realize  it  yet. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  stair  an  open  door  gave 
access  to  the  house-court  where  the  twisted  acacia 
grew,  and  the  drainage  of  the  common  refuse  heap 
trickled  across  the  damp  paving-stones,  and  be- 
yond the  arch  the  clop-clop  of  hoofs  blended  with 
the  sing-song  of  beggars.  Not  conscious  of  any 
special  purpose  Rama  passed  out  into  the  court, 
dragging  her  feet  as  though  she  were  tired,  and 
went  a  little  way,  and  then  stopped. 

Naomi's  two  clenched  hands  were  raised ;  she 
shook  them,  then  pressed  them  against  her  temples, 
rocking  as  she  stood,  then  raised  them  again.  She 
resembled  a  figure  worked  by  strings.  Near  her 
was  Dinah,  her  hands  crossed  on  her  high  stomach, 
nodding  her  head  from  time  to  time  with  the  tone- 
less "Yes"  or  "No"  of  monosyllabic  sympathy. 
David  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  with  one  hand 
upon  the  crazy  balustrade.  He  was  half  turned 
from  Rama,  so  that  she  could  not  see  his  face,  but 
from  his  very  attitude  a  subtle,  /et  unmistakable 
something  radiated  outward.  There  was  a  change 
— definite,  but  indefinable.  .  .  .  Several  ragged, 
tousled  children  stood  at  gaze,  listening  and  watch- 
ing. At  the  square  hole  of  a  window  whose  wooden 
shutter  hung  open,  the  sallow  face  of  a  woman 
looked  out  and  down.     After  a  few  moments  she 


90  REVELATION 

made  way  for  a  second  woman  and  the  two  listened 
together. 

"Oh,  the  shame  of  it!  Oh,  what  shame  to  bring 
upon  your  father's  name !  He's  dead  and  buried, 
thanks  be  to  the  Most  Merciful!  .  .  .  This'll  be 
my  death !  You've  killed  me — you've  killed  your 
own  mother,  David! — that  bore,  and  suckled  and 
slaved  for  you!  .  .  .  Oh,  there's  no  gratitude- 
proper  feeling!  .  .  .  Am  I  your  mother — or  am 
I  a  dog?  .  .  .  A  dancing  girl — a  Gentile — a  harlot ! 
You  have  cast  filth  on  my  head — and  when  you 
were  six  years  old  I  told  everyone  that  you  would 
be  a  Rabbi !  .  .  .  Poor  we  are,  but  respectable  we 
have  always  been  until  this  day!  And  the  neigh- 
bours can  bear  witness  that  your  praises  were  never 
out  of  my  mouth — your  name  was  a  weariness  to 
them.  ..." 

The  torrent  of  words  went  on  like  a  stream  in 
spate.  David  made  no  sign  at  all,  but  the  girl  with 
the  child  on  her  hip  saw  how  his  hand  clenched  on 
the  rail  of  the  balustrade  as  the  widow  flung  the 

shrill   word  "harlot!"   at  him \   miserable 

feeling  of  embarrassment  woke  in  her.  Above  all 
things  she  desired  that  he  should  not  see  her — and 
seeing  her  know  that  she  had  heard  and  seen.  And 
at  any  moment  he  might  turn  his  head.  .  .  .  She 
made  a  little  movement,  meaning  to  gain  the  door- 
way she  had  come  from. 

The  two-leaved  door  at  the  head  of  the  steps 
opened.  David  faced  round  on  the  instant,  look- 
ing up.  The  widow  checked  in  mid  speech,  her  yel- 
low hands  raised,  her  mouth  half  open,  like  an  ar- 
rested marionette.  All  the  eyes  in  the  court  looked 
one  way. 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  91 

In  the  dark  gap  of  the  door  a  figure  stood,  droop- 
ing, holding  to  the  door-frame  with  one  slim  hand, 
upon  whose  fore-finger  was  a  noticeable  gold  ring. 
It  was  a  girl,  whose  marvellous  red-golden  hair 
almost  touched  the  threshold.  A  length  of  supple 
violet  satin  was  wrapped  loosely  about  her ;  her  feet 
were  bare,  and  her  arms  and  shoulders.  She  was 
like  a  vision  seen  in  a  dream — as  incongruous  as  a 
queen's  peacock  in  a  hen-coop.  But  the  beautiful 
face  was  bloodless — tragic — and  it  was  apparent 
that  her  knees  trembled  under  her. 

"David "  she  said.     "David!    .    .    .    I— I  am 

ill !" 

"Astarte !" 

He  sprang  up  the  steps  and  was  beside  her,  his 
arm  about  her,  supporting  her. 

Not  one  of  those  in  the  court  uttered  a  single 
syllable ;  they  only  looked. 

"I  can't  see — it's  all  blurred.  ...  I  don't  know 
what  it  is.  .   .   ." 

Her  voice  appeared  to  fail  her.  She  wTas  upheld 
by  him  wholly  now,  for  every  vestige  of  strength 
seemed  to  have  deserted  her.  A  cold  sweat  had 
damped  her  forehead.  Her  head  lay  back  against 
his  shoulder.  ...  A  swift  spasm  of  pain  passed 
over  her  face,  and  her  closed  eyes  opened. 

"Oh!"  she  gasped,  "it  was  like  a  knife.  ...  I 
can't  breathe — I'm  stifling.  .   .   .     David.  ..." 

In  her  sudden  deadly  and  increasing  faintness, 
sharp  anguish,  and  difficulty  of  breath,  she  cried 
to  him  in  whose  arms  she  had  slept  from  midnight 
till  morning — a  pitiful  appeal  for  human  help  and 
reassurance  from  a  child-soul  whose  hold  upon  all 
familiar  things  was  slackening  swiftly. 


92  REVELATION 

David,  in  an  agony  of  bewildered  anxiety,  had 
watched  her  death-white  face  without  the  nicker 
of  an  eyelash.  As  she  uttered  his  name,  turning 
her  head  ever  so  slightly  towards  him,  a  great  stab 
of  knife-edged  mental  pain  transfixed  him.  .  .  . 
Was  she  about  to  die,  here  in  his  arms,  on  the  very 
threshold  of  unimagined  beauty  and  passionate  joy? 

"Astarte !  .  .  .  Don't  leave  me — live  for  me, 
Astarte !" 

Her  eyelids,  which  had  lowered,  flickered  open 
and  a  strong  convulsive  shudder  passed  over  her. 
Then  her  eyes  closed  again,  and  she  seemed  to  relax 
still  further.  Her  parted  lips  were  blue.  David 
caught  one  of  her  hands  in  his  own ;  it  was  as  cold 
as  marble.  ...  A  darkness  came  between  him 
and  the  light.  It  cleared,  and  he  saw  again,  but 
the  sunshine  seemed  to  have  gone  grey.  Bearing 
the  girl  he  slowly  descended  the  steps. 

Then  it  was  that  Rama  woke  to  the  situation. 
She  set  Tobias  on  the  ground,  darted  past  Dinah 
and  the  widow — neither  of  whom  had  made  any 
movement — and  dragged  one  of  the  frayed  mat- 
tresses from  the  den-like  basement  room  in  which 
the  widow  cooked  and  slept,  laying  it  out  on  the 
floor  of  the  court  by  the  acacia  tree.  David  did  not 
seem  to  see  her — his  face  had  a  curious  stony  look, 
but  he  laid  the  girl  upon  the  mattress,  knelt  beside 
her,  and  taking  one  of  her  lax  hands  began  to  chafe 
it  between  his  own. 

Tears  sprang  to  Rama's  eyes.  Some  intuition 
laid  its  finger  upon  her.  She  drew  a  small,  bright 
steel  knife  from  a  fold  of  her  raiment,  a  knife  such 
as  women  had  need  of  in  kitchen  tasks,  and  went 
down  on  her  knees  beside  the  mattress  and  laid  the 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  93 

knife,  very  carefully,  against  the  blue  lips  of  the 
girl. 

A  number  of  moments  passed.  David  made  no 
sign,  but  she  knew  that  he  understood.  She  lifted 
the  knife  and  looked  at  it.  The  bright  steel  was 
undimmed  by  any  faintest  blur  of  breath.  .  .  .  The 
death-ring  had  done  its  work. 

Rama  raised  her  eyes  from  the  knife,  and  they 
met  David's  for  the  first  time.  She  did  not  speak 
— there  was  no  need  to. 

A  querulous  whine  came  from  Tobias,  who  had 
awakened  to  a  sense  of  neglect.  One  of  the  women 
who  looked  down  from  the  window  turned  her  head, 
speaking  to  someone  in  the  room  behind  her.  With- 
out a  word  David  passed  his  arm  under  the  girl's 
shoulders,  raising  her,  and  set  his  lips  upon  the 
lips  that  were  unresponsive  now  as  any  stone.  .  .  . 
Rama's  quick  tears  fell  like  drops  of  rain. 

"She's  dead,"  said  Dinah,  in  a  full,  matter-of-fact 
voice,  speaking  to  the  widow. 

A  ragged,  sallow  boy,  wearing  a  red  skull  cap, 
dashed  into  the  court,  nearly  upsetting  Tobias. 

"Hi !"  he  called  shrilly.  "There's  a  man  who  works 
miracles  coming!  They're  bringing  out  all  the  sick 
brats,  and  old  Eli,  who's  full  of  boils  and  stinks 
worse  than  a  dead  dog — phew !  I'm  gtoing  to 
watch.   ..." 

He  was  off  and  out  of  the  court  again  like  a 
stone  from  a  sling. 

Dinah  turned  half  round,  her  mouth  open  as 
though  to  speak.  Tobias,  who  had  been  frightened 
by  the  boy,  began  to  howl.  The  two  women  at  the 
window  had  disappeared,  and  their  raised  voices, 
muffled  by  the  stone  walls,  were  audible,  imparting 


94  REVELATION 

the  boy's  information  to  house-mates  and  relatives. 

Rama's  tear-wet  face  was  turned  now  towards 
the  street.  .  .  .  The  boy  had  said  that  a  miracle- 
worker  was  coming.  .  .  .  There  had  always  been 
miracle-workers.  Everyone  had  some  story  of  such 
things.  .  .  .  Perhaps — perhaps  he  could  awaken 
the  girl  on  the  mattress. 

In  the  street  there  was  a  cessation  of  traffic,  a 
hubbub  of  voices,  and  the  monotonous,  hoarse  ap- 
peal of  a  leper.     It  was  infectious. 

"David,"  said  Rama,  "a  man  who  works  miracles 
is  coming.   .    .    .      Perhaps  he  will  bring  her  ba< 

He  might  or  might  not  have  heard  her,  but  there 
was  no  change  in  bis  face. 

"Lift  her  up.     I  will  take  the  mattrc 

He  obeyed  her,  and  the  dead  girl  lay  in  his  arms 
like  a  broken  lily,  her  sightless  eyes  half  open,  her 
lips  apart.  It  was  apparent  that  he  was  stunned, 
acting  automatically. 

Outside,  in  the  street  that  was  too  narrow  for 
sunlight,  and  as  crooked  as  a  dog's  hind  leg.  an  un- 
conscious woman,  in  the  last  stage  of  blood  poison- 
ing, and  an  old  man  afflicted  with  running  ulce 
were  laid  out  on  pallets.  Half-a-dozen  moth< 
cradled  emaciated  infants  swaddled  like  Egyptian 
mummies,  or  held  by  the  hand  walking  children  that 
were  crippled  or  ophthalmic.  Round  these  was  a 
fringe  of  onlookers  that  included  a  man  with  a  per- 
forming monkey,  and  a  desert  Arab  brow-bound 
with  camel's  hair. 

Rama  crouched  on  her  heels  beside  the  mattress 
on  which  Astarte  lay.  David  stood  erect.  There 
was  a  slight,  straight  cleft  between  his  brows  as 
though   he    were   trying   to  remember    something. 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  95 

From  a  doorway  a  half-grown  girl  emerged  bear- 
ing a  bowl  of  thick,  greasy  water,  which  she  emptied 
upon  the  slippery  cobbles.  With  the  bowl  in  her 
hands  she  looked  shrewdly  at  the  little  crowd,  then 
re-entered  the  doorway. 

Turning  the  corner  at  the  head  of  the  street  a 
man  appeared,  followed  by  several  others.  His 
garment  was  white,  and  his  head-cloth,  which  was 
bound  with  a  twist  of  red.  He  was  above  the 
middle  height,  and  moved  with  an  unconscious, 
grave,  yet  simple  self-containment  such  as  invests 
a  dweller  in  the  illimitable  desert,  where  the  lion 
crouches  on  a  flat-topped  rock,  and  man  is  a  moving 
atom  on  the  open  hand  of  God,  and  death  and  the 
riddle  of  life  and  the  multitude  of  the  stars  draw 
very  near. 

A  clamour  broke  out. 

"Master,  have  mercy — mercy!  .  .  .  Master — 
Master!" 

It  was  the  appeal  of  the  bandaged  leper,  who 
rocked  himself  backwards  and  forwards  as  he  sat. 

Rama  uttered  nothing,  but  her  lips  were  apart 
and  her  anxious,  hopeful  eyes  were  upon  the  man 
in  white.  Behind  him  were  the  three  or  four  men 
who  had  followed  him  into  the  street.  They  wore 
stained  and  ragged  raiment  of  many  colours,  like 
the  raiment  of  beggars. 

David  had  not  heard  the  outcry  of  the  leper,  had 
not  seen  the  tallish  man  in  white  who  moved  so 
self-containedly.  Passionate  and  fulfilled  love  had 
spread  for  him  a  golden  bed  of  spices ;  he  had  wor- 
shipped, thirsted,  enjoyed,  adored.  Then  the  sword 
had  fallen.  .  .  .  He  could  not  readjust  himself. 
He  tried  to  realize   what  had  been — what   was — 


96  REVELATION 

and  the  straight  cleft  deepened  between  his  straight 
brows.  .    .    . 

He  heard  Rama  speak. 

"Master "  she  said. 

Suddenly  he  was  aware  that  he  was  looking  into 
the  eyes  of  a  man  who  had  paused  opposite  to  him 
— a  man  in  a  garment  of  white  wollen  stuff  whose 
brows  were  shaded  by  a  white  head-cloth  bound 
with  a  twist  of  red.  The  eyes  of  this  man  were  of 
a  greyish-blue.  For  two  or  perhaps  three  momc 
he  looked  with  a  stead}'  and  calm  directness  straight 
at  David,  then  stooped,  seeming  to  touch  the  girl 
upon  the  mattress. 

There    was    a    little    quick    cry     from     Rama — 
"Oh! .   .   ." 

"Master,  have  mercy!"  howled  the  leper,  his 
rising  hoarse  and  frantic  like  that  of  an  exhausted 
criminal   strapped  to  the   rack.     Suddenly   he   \ 
silent.    The  tall  man  in  white  had  laid  a  hand  upon 
him. 

"David — David!     She's  opening  her  <  \ 

David  turned. 

Astarte's  breasts  heaved  like  those  of  an  awaken- 
ing sleeper.  Her  eyelids  lifted.  Her  eyes,  sleepy- 
looking,  liquidly  dark,  met  the  light,  and  she  blinked. 
It  was  as  natural  as  morning  coming  up  over  the 
purple  mountains  of  Moab.  In  the  street  there 
was  a  great  chattering.  The  old  man  who  had  been 
afflicted  with  running  ulcers  stood  upon  his  feet, 
gesturing  with  eloquent  out-turned  palms  to  a 
knot  of  neighbours.  The  blood-poisoned  woman 
was  sitting  upon  her  pallet,  smiling  in  a  gentle, 
dazed  way  at  those  who  pressed  round  her. 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DAWN  97 


<«i 


'Look  at  me — look  at  me,  everyone  I" 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  leper,  now  a  cracked 
scream  of  joy.  He  stood  upright,  shifting  from 
foot  to  foot  as  though  the  oozing  rubbish  were  red- 
hot ;  and  with  both  hands  he  tore  away  the  filthy, 
half-rotten  bandages  that  had  swaddled  him,  re- 
vealing the  new,  clean,  pinkish  skin. 

"Fainted  and  died  before  my  very  eyes,  she  did 
— not  twelve  minutes  ago.  Dinah  can  bear  me  out 
— she  saw  it  too.  If  any  other  soul  had  told  me  of 
such  a  thing,  I  wouldn't  have  given  it  credit.  ..." 

A  circle  of  women  surrounded  Astarte,  touching 
her,  wondering  at  her,  listening  to  Naomi,  the 
widow.  It  was  apparent  that  she  ranked  no  longer 
as  a  presumably  wanton,  pagan  dancing  girl,  but 
as  an  incarnate  marvel — a  link  between  the  known 
and  the  unknown. 

A  string  of  mules  loaded  with  fodder  turned  the 
corner  at  the  top  of  the  street.  Astarte  was  assisted 
to  rise,  and  then  led  back  into  the  house-court,  still 
the  centre  of  a  cluster  of  women.  Rama  stooped  to 
roll  up  and  raise  the  mattress,  but  David  interposed. 
As  he  straightened,  he  look  down  the  street,  but  the 
miracle-worker  had  passed  on. 

"She  was  dead,  and  now  she  is  alive  .  .  ."he 
said,  and  it  was  as  though  he  were  speaking  to 
himself — trying  to  convince  himself  of  something. 

"Rama.  ..." 

She  looked  at  him  mutely.  She  was  subdued  now, 
and  seemed  tired. 

"Who  is  this  man?  Do  you  know  anything  of 
him?" 

"I  know  nothing.  ..."     She  glanced  towards  a 


98  REVELATION 

woman  standing  near,  but  this  other,  also,  shook 
her  head. 

The  man  with  the  performing  monkey  spoke. 

"He's  a  Galilaean — I've  heard  him  spoken  of. 
They  call  him  Jesus  of  Nazareth." 


PART  II 
'A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY" 


"A   WOMAN   TAKEN    IN   ADULTERY" 


"Cymon,"  said  David,  "I  wish  you  had  seen  him  and 
heard  him." 

"Well.  .  .  .  Perhaps  I'll  go  with  you  to  hear 
him  sometime." 

"You  must !  He's  different  from  all  the  others. 
.  .  .  And  he  gave  Astarte  back  to  me." 

His  voice  lowered  on  the  last  words. 

He  was  seated  on  a  rough  ledge  at  the  base  of  a 
blister-like  dome  that  broke  the  surface  of  the 
house  room.  Cymon  sat  on  the  roof,  leaning  back 
against  the  curve  of  the  dome,  his  arms  locked 
about  his  knees. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"David,"  said  Cymon,  "I  wish  things  were  as  they 
were  before." 

"You  mean   ..." 

"I  wish  that  you  had  never  seen  her." 

David  laughed. 

"I've  had  more  happiness  in  the  last  two  weeks 
than  I  imagined  possible.  ...  I  feel  that  I  could 
wrestle  with  seven  devils  or  tear  the  heart  out  of  a 
lion.    Is  that  misfortune?" 

"If  it  lasts  the  gods  might  envy  you.  .  .  .  But 
it  won't." 

"But,"  said  David,  "all  women  are  not  like  that 
temple  girl  you  met  in  Tyre." 

"Perhaps  not.  ..." 

101 


102  REVELATION 

His  tone  implied  that  they  were — but  that  he 
preferred  not  to  argue  about  it.  It  was  the  tone 
of  one  who  knew — non-committal,  tinged  with  just 
the  right  shade  of  cynical  weariness  of  the  whole 
subject.  With  closed  lips  he  stared  up  at  the  stars 
with  which  the  night  sky — blue  with  the  blueness 
of  dark  grapes — was  oversprinkled.  The  querying 
mee-awl  of  a  mating  cat  was  repeated  once  or 
twice;  then  a  loose  tile  fell,  breaking  into  several 
pieces  on  the  stony  floor  of  some  well-like  house- 
court. 

Cymon  released  his  knees  and  locked  his  hands 
behind  his  head,  leaning  still  farther  back. 

"Tell  me  about  this  man  who  really  works 
miracles.  .    .    .     What  does  he  say?"' 

David  leaned  forward. 

"I've  heard  him  speak  twice.  .  .  .  He  teaches 
that  it's  the  thought,  the  intention,  that  counts — 
that  it's  no  use  giving  rams  and  bullocks  to  the 
Temple  if  you  cheat,  and  hate,  and  sell  your  debtors' 
children  into  slavery.  .  .  .  That  you  must  for- 
give your  enemies.  .  .  .  That  if  you  follow  a 
woman  lustfully  with  your  eyes  you're  as  guilty 
as  if  you'd  seduced  her.  .  .  .  That  there  is  no  in- 
justice in  pain  and  poverty,  for  the  unhappy  shall 
be  crowned  with  happiness " 

"Where?"  put  in  Cymon  abruptly.  He  had  been 
listening  with  attention. 

David  was  silent  for  two  or  three  moments. 

"Do  you  believe  that  death — is  the  end?"  he 
asked. 

"I  don't  know.  .    .   .     Why  shouldn't  it  be?" 

"Why  should  it?  .  .  .  Anyhow,  it's  all  clear 
when  this  man  speaks  of  it.   .    .    .     One  feels  that 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         103 

one  is  standing  in  a  cold,  dark,  narrow  place — a 
sort  of  prison — cramped  and  fetid.  But  it's  the 
entry  to  a — a  king's  house  with  ivory  columns  and 
a  hundred  lamps  lighting  a  marriage  feast,  and 
death  is  the  door  that  opens  to  admit  one.  ...  I 
can't  express  it,  Cymon.  .  .  .  He  was  speaking  to 
the  rabble — men  who  live  like  rats  and  look  like 
them.  You  know  the  sort.  .  .  .  There  were  some 
lepers,  too,  and  a  prostitute  came  out  of  a  house 
to  listen." 

"You  mean  he  teaches  that  the  have-nothings, 
the  street-sweepings — you  and  I,  and  the  scavenger 
— are  to  have  everything  .  .  .  afterwards?  That 
it's  a  sort  of  Forum  open  to  everyone,  bond  or  free 
— not  Elysian  Fields  where  a  handful  of  conquerors 
and  verse-writers  stroll  about  in  white  togas,  and 
fancy  themselves?  .  .  .  It's  all  right — as  far  as 
it  goes.  If  I  believed  something  of  that  sort — 
really  believed  it,  David " 

He  broke  off  in  mid  sentence. 

"Oh,  gods !  it's  futile — futile !  What  does  he 
know — what  do  any  of  them  know?  .  .  .  Miracles 
mean  nothing.  They're  worked  by  some  law  we 
don't  understand.  That's  all.  .  .  .  Lightning's  a 
miracle — and  snow — and  a  rainbow.  We  don't 
understand  them.  .  .  .  We  live,  and  then  we  die 
— and  bloat  up  and  stink  if  we're  not  burned  or 
buried.  Just  like  a  dog  or  a  sheep.  .  .  .  And  some- 
thing frets  in  us — something  expands,  and  hungers, 
and  strains  like  a  starved  dog  on  a  leash.  .  .  . 
Sometimes  I  feel  that  I'm  a  sort  of  chained  demi- 
god. Sometimes  I  want  to  die  on  the  steps  of  an 
emperor's  house,  leading  a  mob  immeasurable  as 
the  sea,  who  are  going  to  tear  him  down,  and  sweep 


104  REVELATION 

it  all  away,  and  seize  the  beauty,  and  hug  it,  and 
revel  in  it !  .  .  .  And — what  am  I  ?  1  sleep  where 
I  can,  like  a  pariah  with  the  mange,  and  1  can't  even 
buy  a  sound  pair  of  sandals.  ...  If  it  wasn't  that 
I've  got  my  back  to  the  wall  and  I'm  going  to  fight 
it  out,  I'd  open  my  veins  to-night." 

"And   leave   me   without   a    friend?"   said  David. 

"You've  got— Astarte." 

He  snapped  the  name  at  him  as  though  it  gave 
him  a  wrench  to  utter  it. 

"Cymon  .  .  .  that's  not  just.  It's  made  no  dif- 
ference between   us.     You   can't   say   that   it   has." 

"It  hasn't  yet.  .  .  .  David,  I'm  sorry.  I'll  go 
now.    It's  getting  late.'' 

He  got  to  his  feet,  and  David  stood  up  with  him. 

"I'm  sorry,  David,"  he  said  again.  "You — you 
mean  a  lot  to  me.  .  .  .  I'm  quite  alone;  and  Id 
live  and  die  on  a  rock  in  the  desert  rather  than  l""k 
to  any  woman   for  company." 

He  spoke  with  a  bitterness  that  seemed  unneces- 
sarily savage. 

The  long-drawn  moan  of  the  matc-:>ceking  cat 
was  again  audible. 

"Mee-awl — mee-e-eawl,"  it  said. 

A  flight  of  steps  led  down  from  the  house-top  to 
the  narrow  strip  of  a  lower  roof  terrace  where  were 
a  few  untended  plants  in  broken  pots.  At  the  foot 
of  this  flight  a  door  gave  access  to  the  largish 
shallow-domed  room  where  David  had  caught  As- 
tarte in  his  arms,  almost  against  his  will,  two  weeks 
before.  In  this  room  one  little  blackened  lamp  in 
which  three  yellow  flames  floated  was  suspended 
from  the  centre  of  the  dome. 

Astarte   lay    on    a    mattress   by    the    wall.     One 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         105 

curved,  upthrown  arm  shielded  her  eyes  from  the 
feeble  light.  Her  eyes  were  closed.  A  white  gar- 
ment clothed  her  body.  Anyone  entering  the  room 
would  have  supposed  that  she  was  asleep.  But 
she  was  not  asleep.    She  was  awake,  and  angry. 

David  had  brought  a  young  Greek  home  with 
him — fair,  rather  good-looking.  It  had  been  some- 
thing in  the  nature  of  an  event ;  every  new  face 
was  an  event  to  Astarte.  But  he  had  barely  greeted 
her — had  scarcely  even  raised  his  eyes  to  hers.  Two 
empty  hours  had  elapsed  since  then.  She  had 
counted  the  sleeping  flies  that  speckled  the  smooth, 
cuplike  hollow  of  the  small  dome ;  then  she  had 
tried  to  sleep ;  then  she  had  become  angry — in- 
creasingly angry — and  alertly  wakeful.  .  .  .  Why 
should  she  not  speak  with  this  Greek  who  had 
come  home  with  David?  She  wanted  to  meet  a 
variety  of  people,  to  talk  to  them,  listen  to  them, 
experience  all  manner  of  verbal  adventures.  .  .  . 
And  men  were  interesting — more  interesting  than 
women.    .    .    . 

There  was  a  sound  of  feet  descending  the  exter- 
ior steps  that  led  'to  the  roof.  Astarte's  eyes 
opened — but  instantly  closed  again.  She  moved 
her  head,  turning  her  face  to  the  wall.  Her  breast 
heaved  regularly;  she  had  every  appearance  of 
sleep.  She  waited.  .  .  .  When  David  touched 
her,  she  spoke  instantly. 

"Am  I  no  better  than  a  dog?  Why  didn't  your 
friend  speak  to  me  ?  Why  am  I  left  alone  as  though 
I  were  a  leper?" 

Her  voice  was  pettish.  Her  eyes  regarded  him 
like  those  of  a  cross  child. 


106  REVELATION 

David,   shocked   by    her    sudden    self-comparison 
with  a  dog,  was  distressed. 

"Darling — you  don't  understand,"  he  said.  "1  am 
to  blame — I  should  have  told  you.  Cymon's  a 
good  fellow,  and  I'm — I'm  very  fond  of  him,  but 
a  girl  robbed  him  and  lied  to  him  once,  and  since 
then  he  won't  look  at  any  woman — he  never  spe:. 
to  them  if  he  can  help  it.  .  .  .  Are  you  angry  with 
me,  Astarte?" 

"N-no,"  said  Astarte. 

She  was  really  fond  of  David,  and  also,  he  was 
the  first  man  to  possess  and  waken  her,  which 
counts  for  much  with  a  woman.  His  narrow-loined 
build,  at  once  supple  and  statuesque,  occasioned  her 
a  frank  and  very  keen  delight.  And  he  was  al- 
together engrossed  with  her — her  passionate, 
anxious  and  careful  lover — her  slave.  All  this  was 
delicious,  and  flattering  as  a  tepid  bath  of  scented 
milk,  but  for  the  rest,  this  place  was  nearly  as  dull 
as  the  house  of  Bel-Namri,  and  infinitely  meaner 
and  more  disagreeable  to  the  nostrils,  gritty  and 
constricted.  She  disliked  it  already ;  the  women 
were  sour  and  stupid,  excepting  one  girl,  Rama — 
and  she  never  laughed.  Each  day  was  similar 
the  day  before.  There  was  no  colour — only  innu- 
merable flies,  a  smell  much  worse  than  that  of 
Bel-Namri's  beast-yard ;  and  the  sort  of  work  that 
was  performed  by  negro  slaves  in  the  house  of 
Herod,  as  in  the  house  of  Bel-Namri.  She  had 
been  here  two  weeks,  but  the  morning  and  evening 
of  each  day,  and  the  nights,  were  all  that  really 
mattered,  for  then  David  was  with  her. 

"Didn't  you  tell  me  that  to-morrow  is  a  festival 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         107 

day  for  you?     You  will  stay  with  me  all  the  time 
won't  you?" 

She  had  slipped  an  arm  about  his  neck. 

"I  never  leave  you  willingly,"  said  David. 

He  was  very  much  in  love. 

After  a  few  moment's  silence  he  said,  "I  shall  go 
to  the  Temple  in  the  morning.  Then  I  will  return 
and  stay  with  you.'' 

Astarte  ignored  the  mention  of  the  Temple.  She 
took  all  such  things  for  granted.  They  were  facts, 
like  birth  and  death,  slaves  and  masters,  but  they 
did  not  interest  her  in  the  least,  and  she  entertained 
no  curiosity  concerning  them. 

"You  must  take  me  outside  the  town,"  she  said. 
"I  want  to  see  trees  and  goats,  and  walk  in  the 
sunshine !  .  .  .  I  hope  a  caravan  passes  with  lots 
of  men  and  camels." 

She  withdrew  her  arm  from  about  his  neck  and 
sat  upright,  squatting  back  on  her  heels,  alert  as  a 
coiled  spring.  The  prospect  of  new  sights  was 
exhilarating.  David's  hand  came  lightly  upon  her 
— it  slid  caressingly  from  her  wrist  to  her  rounder 
upper  arm,  as  though  the  mere  touch  of  her  was 
a  strange  luxury.  Still  sitting  back  on  her  heels 
she  turned  to  face  him,  meeting  his  steady  dark 
eyes. 

II 

"The  Rabbi  has  fallen  !" 

It  was  an  exclamation  uttered  by  several  simul- 
taneously. 

A  middle-aged  man,  shuffling  along  with  his  eyes 
tightly  closed,  had  stumbled  over  a  loose  stone 
and  come  down  heavily  on  his  hands  and  knees, 


108  REVELATION 

lacerating  his  palms.     He  was  not  blind,  but  went 
habitually  with  shut  eyes  to  avoid  seeing  women. 

Two  or  three  darted  forward  and  raised  him  with 
solicitude,   placing   his    staff   in   his    hand.     A    : 
gouts   of   blood    starred    the    cobble-stones   of    the 
street.     The  fakeer  class  to  which  the  self-blinded 
man  belonged  were  known  as  Bleeding  Pharisees. 

David  had  halted,  involuntarily,  when  the  shuf- 
fling man,  his  staff  tap-tapping  like  a  blind  beggu 
tripped  over  the  stone,  but  he  had  made  no  m<' 
ment  to  assist  him.     He  simply   stood  and  looked, 
and  then  passed  on.     He  had  upon  him  a  longish. 
striped    linen    garment,    and    a    white    head-cloth 
shaded  his  brows.     At  each  corner  of  his  stole-like 
prayer-shawl  hung  a  tassel  of  eight  threads  uf  hya- 
cinth-blue   wool    in    fulfilment    of    a    command    of 
Moses.    It  was  the  morning  of  the  sixth  day  bet 
the  Passover — the  threshold  of  the  holy   season — 
and  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  Temple 

Nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  out  of  a  thousand 
orthodox  Jews  would  have  sprung  forward  to  assist 
the  fallen  Pharisee,  and  would  have  counted  them- 
selves favoured  by  the  mere  fact  of  contact  with 
him,  but  David  was  unorthodox — scandalously  so. 
If  a  Gentile  even  inquired  the  way  of  a  Jew  it 
was  a  Jew's  duty  to  direct  him  wrongly,  yet  David 
wore  Gentile  raiment  on  all  his  working  days,  had 
chosen  a  Greek  for  a  friend,  and  broke  bread  with 
him.  And  from  his  thirteenth  year  he  had  utterly 
disregarded  the  Pharisees,  the  teachers  and  pre- 
servers of  the  Law — the  holy  men  who  taught  that 
if  a  hen  laid  an  egg  on  the  Sabbath,  that  egg  was 
to  be  neither  eaten,  touched,  nor  even  looked  at,  and 
that  if  vinegar  was  used  for  the  toothache  on  that 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         109 

day,  it  must  not  be  spat  out  under  pain  of  sin,  but 
must  be  swallowed.  Finally,  he  had  taken  a  Gentile 
girl  for  his  wife,  but  this  crowning  scandal  was  as 
yet  known  only  to  a  few.  It  was  hard  on  his 
mother,  they  said — it  was  altogether  too  bad!  The 
poor  soul  was  always  excusing  him  to  the  neigh- 
bours, telling  them  what  a  good  son  he  was,  how 
handsome  and  pious. 

He  was  now  ascending  a  street  that  resembled 
a  steep,  foot-worn  staircase.  Many  others  were 
climbing  with  him.  One  man  wore  a  mortar-shaped 
cap,  which  came  below  the  level  of  his  eyes,  and 
he  stumbled  upward  with  outstretched  hands.  He 
also  was  a  self-blinded  fakeer.  A  spare,  nobly 
bearded  man  in  white  raiment,  with  the  serene  brow 
of  a  child  and  the  carriage  of  a  prophet,  mounted 
on  David's  right.  He  was  an  Essene,  celibate,  vege- 
tarian, stricter  in  his  way  of  life  than  the  strictest 
Pharisee,  the  slightest  contact  with  whom  he  would 
regard  as  a  defilement. 

Dominating  the  lower  town,  with  its  bazaars, 
poverty,  stench,  harlots,  and  hucksters,  rose  the  Holy 
City,  which  culminated  in  Mount  Moriah  and  the 
Temple  of  God.  Here  the  streets  were  hollowed 
out  in  the  centre  with  raised  footways  on  either 
side,  so  that  those  who  were  going  up  to  the 
Temple  might  avoid  contamination  from  the  pro- 
cessions of  sheep  and  cattle  destined  for  the  altar 
of  burnt  offerings,  or  from  any  person  ceremonially 
unclean.  No  lepers  were  permitted  here,  and  should 
a  death  occur  the  corpse  must  immediately  be 
carried  forth. 

A  great  gateway  with  open  gates  of  chased 
Corinthian  brass,  the  colour  of  pale  gold  and  more 


110  REVELATION 

precious  than  gold  or  silver,  rose  up  before  David, 
marvellous,  incalculably  costly.     It  ol  the 

outer  gates  of  the  Temple  area.     He  passed  be- 
neath it,  crossed  the  spacious  Court  of  the  Genti 
beyond  which  no   Hebrew  convert  might  pa 
cended    a    flight    of    steps    of    variegated    mar' 
crossed  the  threshold  of  a  second  gate,  traversed 
the    Court    of    the    Women,    ascended    a    crescent- 
shaped  flight  of  fifteen  alabaster  d  be- 
tween the  dark  greet!  marble  columns  of  the  third — 
the   Nicanor   Gate — and  entered   the   Court   of   the 
Israelites.  He   W                            I,  bavin-    rcn 
sandals  at  the   threshold     He             I   erect 
straight,  and  tall. 

Before  him,  at  a  .still  higher  level,  was  tin.  sacn 
Court  of  the  Priests,  and  his  rais<  d  i  ere  uj 

the  facade  of  the  Temple — the  house  of  the  God 
Moses. 

It  was  a  house  of  gold.     The  roof  was  s<  t  with 
golden   spikes   to  prevent  pollution   from  alight 
birds;   above    the    massive    golden   gates  I  ra- 

ordinary    height   and    breadth    intertwining   golden 
grape    vines    wire    weighted    with    golden 
bunches  six  feet  in  length,  and  for  thirty   feet  on 
either  side  of  the  gates  the  marble  was  plated  with 
pure  gold. 

The  sun  had  risen,  and  the  eastward-looking  face 
of  the  Temple  shone  like  the  face  of  an  angel  who 
stands   in  the  blinding  light   of  Heaven. 

David,  dazzled  by   the   glowing   marvel   ^i   gold- 
plated  stone  that  towered  a  hundred  and  thirty  i 
above  him,  lowered  his  head  and  began  to  pray.    In 
the  open  spaces  behind  him  and  on  either  side  hun- 
dreds of  men  and  youths  with  covered  heads  and 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         111 

bared  feet  were  binding-  the  tiny  amulet  boxes  upon 
their  foreheads  and  lacing  about  their  outstretched 
left  arms  the  leather  thongs  that  bore  witness  to 
one  of  the  titles  of  God. 

A  bell  tinkled.  Above,  in  the  sacred  space  before 
the  Temple,  a  male  lamb,  just  slain,  had  been  laid 
upon  the  great  altar  of  undressed  stone,  and  two 
priests,  one  bearing  incense  in  a  golden  vase,  the 
other  glowing  coals  in  a  golden  fire-pan,  had  passed 
into  the  still,  cool  twilight  behind  the  gates  of  gold, 
where,  in  the  seven  lamp-sockets  of  the  towering 
golden  candelabrum,  seven  little  flames  burned  day 
and  night. 

All  the  covered  heads  were  lowered.  The  blue 
steam  of  incense  was  rising  in  the  dim  Holy  Place 
where  the  air  was  almost  as  moveless  as  in  a  sealed 
mountain  cavern,  and  the  seven  small  flames  did 
not  even  flicker  as  an  eyelid  flickers. 

Now  fire  licked  and  crackled  upon  the  altar  of 
burnt  offerings  and  the  smoke  of  the  burning  fag- 
gots  rolled   upward.     A   savour   of   roasted    meat 

touched  the  nostrils.  The  reverberating,  metallic 
cling-clang  of  cymbals  smote  the  ear.  A  choir  of 
deep  male  voices  took  up  a  chant  whose  Egyptian 
cadences,  lifting  and  falling,  seemed  to  hark  back 
to  an  immeasurable  antiquity. 

David  had  raised  his  head  and  his  eyes  were  upon 
the  ascending  smoke  of  the  sacrifice,  but  he  did  not 
see  the  smoke,  nor  the  beaten  gold  of  the  Temple, 
nor  the  pale  mornfng  sky.  His  lips  moved.  He 
was  praying — not  the  mechanical  learned-by-rote 
prayers  prescribed  by  the  Pharisees,  the  Rabbis— 
but  his  hope,  his  worship,  his   secret,  passionate 


112  REVELATION 

aspiration  translated  into  unleashed  words  uttered 
beneath  his  breath. 

In  the  schools  the  Pharisees  taught  the  Rabbin- 
ical commentaries  upon  the  Law  with  their  endless 
quibbling  and  hair-splitting.  David,  an  instinctive 
rebel  from  the  first,  had  studied  the  Law  alone  from 
his  thirteenth  year.  He  observed  none  of  the 
thousand  and  one  Pharisaical  enactments,  yet  he 
was  of  much  the  same  stuff  as  his  namesake  and 
remote  ancestor,  David,  the  patriot,  the  poet-king. 
Upon  this  morning  he  prayed — his  brows  con- 
tracted, his  face  straining  upward — for  the  coming 
of  the  Deliverer,  the  conquering  Messiah.  A  pas- 
sage from  one  of  the  prophets  came  to  him :  "And 
he  who  shall  rise  up  to  rule  the  Gentiles,  in  him  the 
Gentiles  shall  hope."  Yes,  the  kingdom  of  the 
Deliverer  would  be  for  Gentile  as  well  as  for  Jew  ; 
Rome  would  be  overthrown,  and  the  Messiah,  the 
Holy  One  of  Israel,  would  rule  the  world.  The 
sudden  glory  of  the  thought  blinded  him.  'He 
caught  his  breath.  .   .   . 

Presently,  going  with  the  crowd,  he  was  on  his 
way  out,  his  sandals  fastened  again  upon  his  feet. 
He  was  still  abstracted,  looking  straight  before  him 
and  seeing  little.  Doves  cooed,  patterned  marble 
of  variegated  hues  glistened,  silver  and  gold  and 
fine  brass  caught  the  sun.  At  the  low  tables  of  the 
money-changers  in  the  Court  of  the  Gentiles,  men 
argued  volubly  with  outspread  palms.  .  .   . 

Now  came  a  street  that  led  into  the  obscurity  of 
a  strait  tunnelled  arch.  Wine-coloured  draping  and 
strips  of  Babylonian  tapestry  work  hung  against 
the  stone  walls,  for  the  approaching  festival 
brought  in  a  period  of  public  rejoicing. 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         113 

"Hosanna!  .  .  .  Hosanna!" 

"Blessed  be  He  who  comes  in  the  name  of  the 
Lord!" 

What  was  that? 

Pigeons  were  fluttering  above  his  head.  A 
shrivelled  little  man  seated  in  a  goldsmith's  shop 
— a  shallow  recess  under  an  awning  of  brown  sack- 
cloth— was  craning  his  scraggy  neck  to  see. 

"Hosanna !" 

There  was  a  crowd  coming — what  was  it  ? 

People  began  to  stream  out  of  the  tunnel-arch 
— country  people,  most  of  them.  Many  carried 
willow  wands,  on  which  the  delicate  new  leaves  had 
just  budded,  and  palm  branches.  One  man  tossed 
his  arms  aloft. 

"Hosanna!"  he  cried  at  the  top  of  a  rich  baritone 
voice. 

"What's  this— what's  this?" 

An  old  Levite,  with  a  pair  of  grey  locks  dangling 
from  under  his  conical  white  turban  bound  with  a 
twist  of  coloured  silk,  spoke  irritably,  a  blue-veined 
hand  cupped  to  his  ear. 

"Who  is  it?  Judah,  ask  one  of  these  people  who 
it  is. 

David,  who  stood  alongside  him,  found  himself 
listening  for  the  answer  to  this.  He  felt  really 
curious. 

Judah — a  handsome,  effeminate  lad — was  speak- 
ing. 

"They  say  it  is  the  prophet  Jesus,  from  Nazareth 
in  Galilee,  father." 

"Prophet !  He's  a  beggar  who  teaches  heresy 
and  keeps  company  with  loose  livers.    This  rabble 


114  REVELATION 

would  shout  for  anybody.  ...  I  don't  know 
what's  coming  to  Jerusalem.    The  Sanhedrin  should 

take  action  against  such  people." 

His  dangling  grey  side-locks  wagged  lil  iir 

of  goats'  beards. 

The  sunshine  glistened  on  the  slanting  palm 
fronds.  The  street  seemed  filled  with  them — it 
waved  like  a  thicket  in  the  Jordan  Valley. 

From  beneath  the  low-browed  arch  a  meek  wh. 
she-ass  emerged,  followed  by  a  Little  shagg) 
colt   with   a   white   blaze  between    :  which 

Avere  deer-brown  and  very  innocent.  Upon  the 
she-ass  sat  a  man,  and  as  he  came,  men,  kneeling 
quickly,  stripped  off  their  Ion.  ileeved 

and  laid  them  in  the  hollowed  bed  of  the 
where  fetid  moisture  trickled,  so  that  the  h< 
the  she-ass  were  muffled. 

"Hosanna  in  the  highest !" 

The  snivelled  little  goldsmith  had  risen  and 
salaaming.     Some  of  those  who  stood  to  watch 
the    raised    footways    on    either    side    did    liki 
From  projecting  windows   women  looked  down. 

"Hosanna  to  the  prophet  of  God — the  miracle- 
worker — the  friend  of  the  poor!  .  .  .  Bles-ed  is 
He  who  comes  in  the  name  of  the  Lord!" 

Exultation  seemed  to  fan  the  faces  of  the 
watchers  like  a  strong,  sweet  wind. 

The  man  who  sat  upon  the  she-ass  was  level  with 
David  now.  He  turned  his  head  slightly  aside.  His 
gaze — the  steady  and  calm  directness  of  it — en- 
countered David's.  .   .   . 

"Hosanna !" 

It  was  a  deep,  hundred-throated,  exultant  shout. 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         115 

Had  he  been  blind  and  deaf?  How  was  it  that 
he  had  prayed  and  groped  for  the  sun  when  it 
shone  full  in  his  eyes?  The  man  who  could  raise 
the  dead  to  life  was  entering  Jerusalem  on  a  white 
ass  after  the  manner  of  the  Judges  of  Israel,  and 
in  accordance  with  the  prophecy  that  foretold  the 
entrance  of  the  Messiah.  .  .  .  Oh,  fool — blind  fool 
that  he  had  been !  Glory  to  God — glory  to  the  God 
of  Israel !  .  .  .  The  Messiah.  Yes,  it  was  the 
Messiah  at  last ! 

Now  he  was  down  in  the  trough  of  the  street, 
jostled  by  Galilsean  pilgrims  come  south  on  foot 
for  the  Passover,  by  folk  from  the  earth-brown 
villages  on  the  skirts  of  the  Mount  of  Olives,  by 
healed  lepers  in  filthy  rags  frantic  to  show  them- 
selves to  the  priests  at  the  Temple  and  be  pro- 
nounced clean  according  to  the  Law,  by  the  blind 
who  saw,  the  lame  who  had  abandoned  their 
crutches,  the  deaf  mutes  who  cried  out  in  discord- 
ant, unpractised  voices.  Now  he  walked  by  the 
flank  of  the  she-ass,  his  face  lifted. 

"Hosanna!    Hosanna  in  the  highest!" 

His  whole  soul — aflame  like  the  chariot  that  had 
caught  Elias,  living,  to  the  seventh  heaven — was 
in  that  involuntary,  ringing,  triumphant  cry. 

The  Deliverer  had  come.  He  had  come  to  Zion 
as  the  prophets  had  foretold.  Already  the  people 
knew — and  the  knowledge  would  spread  like  a 
swift-running  fire.  Then  swords — an  army  of  a 
hundred  thousand — the  star  of  Rome  setting  in 
blood.  And  then  the  golden  triumph — like  an  un- 
imaginable sunrise  ablaze  with  the  hues  of  gems 
uncountable.    And  then  the  empire  of  God.  .   .  . 


116  REVELATION 

III 

Astarte  stood  on  the  shelf-like  slice  of  roof  where, 
in  three  or  four  broken  flower-pots,  hardy  mari- 
golds flourished  with  the  air  of  spontaneous,  golden- 
flowered   weeds.     Seven   or   eight    feet   below    her 
was  a  house-court  like  a  shallow  pit.     At  an  open- 
air  cooking  place  a  very  stout  woman  -  er 
something,  a  wooden  spoon  in  her  hand.     Sm< 
eddied,  flavoured  with  the  odour  of  some  species  of 
-tew.    Astarte's  delicate  nostrils  moved  like  a 
Then    her    nose    wrinkled    and    she    frowned.      It 
smelled  like   slave's   food.     She   felt  that  she  never 
wished  to  eat  again,  except,  per!                             ,  or 
flamingo's    tongues    garnished    with    cucumber — a 
dish  which  she  had  shared  with  Semla  in  the  hoi 
of  Herod. 

She  ascended  the  flight  <>f  steps  that  led  up  to 
the  roof  where  was  the  Mister-like  dome.  Here 
she  lay  down  at  full  length  with  her  arms  on  the 
low  parapet  and  her  chin  dropped  on  them.  Lying 
so,  she  could  look  down  into  the  house-court  of  the 
acacia-tree,  and  the  scabby,  scrap-eating  d  ind 

Tobias,  and  her  mother-in-law.  But  she  was  not 
looking  for  any  of  these  things.  She  was  watching 
for  the  return  of  David.  He  had  left  her  an  hour 
before  and  already  she  was  impatient.  Impat 
and  bored.  .  .  .  He  had  gone  to  the  Temple.  It 
had  seemed  tiresome  to  her,  but,  somehow,  she 
had  felt  that  she  must  say  nothing  to  him  against 
it.  .   .   . 

Two  women  entered  the  house-court  from  op- 
posite sides,  and  met  in  the  centre,  and  stood  to 
talk — Dinah  and  Naomi. 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         117 

"Yes,  I  cook  and  sweep  for  three  now  as  before 
I  cooked  for  two.  I'm  her  servant,  Dinah — that's 
what  I  am.  And  my  own  son  stands  by  as  dumb 
as  a  mule.  .  .  .  She's  bewitched  him — as  sure  as 
I  draw  breath  that's  what  it  is!  Oh,  what  a  visita- 
tion to  come  upon  a  God-fearing  family !  And  I 
hoped,  perhaps,  that  your  Rama.  .  .  .  The  neigh- 
bours look  askance  at  us,  Dinah — and  no  blame  to 
them  !  Think  of  it !  No  betrothal  under  the  canopy 
— no  marriage  gathering.  Only  a  written  contract 
given  before  witnesses — and  that  too  late  to  save 
the  scandal.  We  might  be  tax-collectors — or — or 
Gentiles !  .  .  .  The  shame's  killing  me,  Dinah — 
and  my  own  son  never  even  so  much  as  asks  me 
how  I  have  slept.  .  .  .  Well !  I  won't  be  with  him 
always — and  let  her  cook  his  lentils  for  him,  that's 
all !  He'll  find  the  difference  then,  Dinah.  .  .  . 
She  lies  about  all  day  like  a  harlot.  Oh,  what  a 
punishment  from  heaven!" 

Astarte,  looking  down,  and  watching  the  two 
women  in  the  middle  of  the  court  because  she  was 
very  bored  and  must  needs  watch  something,  was 
aware,  chiefly,  of  two  things.  One  was  the  un- 
sightliness  of  Dinah's  figure,  pronouncedly  mater- 
nal ;  the  other  was  the  gnarled,  rheumatic  hands  of 
the  widow  as  she  gestured.  She  could  not  hear 
what  they  were  saying.  .  .  .  The  first  of  these 
disgusted  her.  How  terrible  to  be  so  hideously 
out  of  shape — such  an  offence  to  the  eyes !  A  calv- 
ing cow  was  ugly,  but  this  flat-footed  woman,  who 
looked  as  stupid  as  a  fish,  was  laughable — like  a 
silly,  grotesque  figure  drawn  by  a  child  on  a  wall 
with  a  piece  of  charcoal.    As  for  the  widow's  ges- 


118  REV  ELATION 

ticulating    hands,    they    annoyed    her    because    the 
widow  herself  annoyed  her. 

The  two  women  in  the  court  separated,  going 
different  ways.  Now  there  was  nothing  whatever 
to  look  at.  .   .   .     Surely  David  would  come  soo 

Astarte  yawned.    The  sun  was  getting  hot.     She 
would  go  down  into  the  domed  room  and  wait  tl. 
for  him.  .   .    .     She  threw  a  fragment  of  mortar  at 
a  sparrow.    Then  she  got  up. 

In  the  domed  room  it  was  cool.  The  two-leaved 
outer  door  was  shut.  Astarte  stood  for  a  while 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor  with  her  hands  lock 
behind  lur  head.  Presently  she  freed  herself  fi 
her  single  garment  and  began  to  perform  mu>cle 
exercises  of  the  sort  that  Dekerto  had  taught  her. 
This  gave  her  a  sense  of  suppleness  and  bodily 
well-being   which   was  pleasant. 

She  stretched  herself,  delighting  in  the  faint  con- 
tact of  her  loosened,  downward-falling  hair  with 
her  bared  body.  It  was  as  spontaneous  a  feel 
of  pleasure  in  herself  as  that  which  prompts  a  glos 
filly  to  roll  and  kick.  A  single  almost  vertical 
arrow  of  the  sun  struck  inward  through  the  latticed 
opening  of  the  high-set  window  and  glinted  on  her 
auburn  head.  There  was  nothing  in  the  room  save 
the  floor  mats,  the  mattress,  and  the  hanging  lamp, 
yet  it  might  have  been  a  shrine  of  the  Syrian  Venus 
from  whom  Astarte  was  named,  for  the  sheer 
beauty  of  her  was  that  of  a  goddess  fashioned  from 
ivory  and  red-gold,  just  as  Dekerto  had  once  said. 
.  .  .  Subconsciously  she  panted  for  someone  to 
stand  before  her  and  regard  her  appreciatively. 

A  little  later  she  was  two-thirds  asleep,  curled 
up  on  the  tattered  mattress.     The  sun-ray  became 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         119 

vertical,    shrank,   and   disappeared.     Astarte   slept, 
breathing  softly.  .   .   . 

When  she  awoke  some  animal  instinct  told  her 
that  a  considerable  time  had  passed.  She  sprang 
to  her  feet,  ran  to  the  outer  door,  pulled  one  of  its 
leaves  inward  a  little  way,  and  looked  quickly  into 
the  court.  The  shadow  of  the  twisted  acacia-tree 
flecked  the  flight  of  steps.  It  was  at  least  two  hours 
after  midday. 

David  had  not  returned! 

The  querulous  voice  of  the  widow  came  to  her. 
Astarte  pushed  the  door  to  and  went  back  a  few 
steps.  .  .  .  They  had  planned  to  take  food — bread 
and  dates — and  go  beyond  the  city,  and  eat  at  noon 
under  the  olive-trees.  There  would  be  goats  to 
look  at — perhaps  camels.  .  .  .  But  he  had  not 
returned,  and  the  day  was  more  than  half  gone,  and 
she  was  alone  in  this  detestable  place  where  there 
was  nothing  to  do — no  one  to  speak  to  or  smile  at 
— and  the  ugly  old  woman,  his  mother,  whined  all 
the  time  like  a  creaking  door-hinge ! 

Astarte  sat  bolt  upright  on  the  mattress,  her  fists 
clenched,  breathing  as  though  her  breast  was  con- 
stricted. She  was  furiously  disappointed,  and  as 
angry  as  a  passionate  child  who  has  been  promised 
a  much-desired  object  and  then  cheated  of  it.  A 
sort  of  desperation  seized  her — she  felt  that  she  was 
caged,  and  glanced  right  and  left  at  the  naked  walls 
like  a  trapped  wild  creature.  .  .  .  But  why  should 
she  sit  in  this  place?  She  had  only  to  open  the  two- 
leaved  door,  descend  the  steps,  cross  the  court,  and 
she  would  be  in  the  street.  .  .  .  She  could  go  for 
a  little  distance,  see  this  and  that,  and  then 
return.   .    .    . 


120  REVELATION 

Her   heart    leaped.      Resentment   against    Da 
disappointment  and  tedium   were  transmuted   into 
a  sudden  breathless  daring  that  defied  and  antici- 
pated.    She  stood  up.     Her  hair  was  unbound;  she 
plaited    it    quickly    into    two    plaits,    for    it    inci 
venienced  her.     Slipping  her  bare  feet  into  sandals 
she  took  the  length  of  violet-hued  satin  stuff  which 
she  had  brought  from  the  house  of  Herod  and  folded 
herself  in  it  in   such  a  manner  that  her  head  \ 
partially  hooded.     Now  she  would  go  out. 

At  the  foot  of  the  steps  a  dog  snapp< 
A  movement   of  mild,  .squalor-tainted  air  re: 
tremulous   the   acacia's   del 
long,  milk-white  blossom  hung  downward 
jasmine.     Astarte   stood  a  moment  on  the  lowest 
step  to  inhale  this  fragrant 

"Where  are  you  going?' 

The  widow  had  come  out   from  behind  a   i 
curtain. 

"Into  the  street.    There  is  nothing  .  . 

I  shall  come  back  in  a  little  while." 

"You  tell  me  you're  g"ing  into  the  .street — into 
the  street  like  that!" 

The  widow's  voice  rose  so  high  on  the  last  word 
that  it  cracked. 

"Yes,"  said  Astarte.     She  felt  annoyed. 

"Oh,   what   a  punishment — what    a    visitation 
heaven  has  come  upon  us  !     My  daughter-in-law — 
my  son's  wife!     Why  have  I  lived  to  see  it?     I 
clothe    yourself    like    a    respectable    woman.      My 
David's  wife  shall  not  shame  him   in  the  sight  of 
the  neighbours — not  while  I  have  a  voice  1" 

Astarte  was  really  angry  now. 


r 


\  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         121 


"I'll  do  what  I  please !  Don't  scream  at  me — you 
— you  old  mule  !" 

And  she  stepped  down  to  the  floor  of  the  court, 
avoided  the  flea-biting  dog,  and  went  straight  past 
the  widow  as  though  the  widow  were  no  more  than 
a  dumb,  planted  post. 

A  loaded  camel  was  passing — lurching,  rank- 
smelling,  supercilious.  Astarte  stood  against  one 
of  the  walls  of  the  street,  for  its  bales  almost 
brushed  the  opposite  sides  of  the  traffic-gut  as  it 
came.  Its  hide  had  been  rubbed  bald  in  places 
by  the  friction  of  girth  and  pack-saddle,  and  its 
eyes  were  malevolent.  Astarte  regarded  it  with 
happy  interest. 

When  it  had  passed  her  she  walked  forward,  go- 
ing in  the  same  direction.  All  directions  were  alike 
to  her.  The  street  turned  to  the  right,  and  pres- 
ently was  intersected  by  another,  which  she  entered. 
This  street  was  filled  with  people,  and  it  seemed  to 
Astarte  that  they  were  all  looking  at  her.  She  was 
not  mistaken  in  this.  Her  face,  framed  by  her 
braided  red-gold  hair,  was  as  arresting  as  a  sudden 
display  of  jewels  in  a  beggar's  lane,  and  no  woman 
going  on  foot  in  the  lower  town  wrapped  herself 
to  the  chin  in  satin  stuff  hued  like  a  purple  violet. 

A  squatting  cobbler  laid  down  the  curly-toed  shoe 
he  was  in  the  act  of  mending;  a  cluster  of  gossiping 
women  wearing  metal  anklets  and  with  puny  chil- 
dren astride  their  hips,  became  abruptly  silent,  star- 
ing with  something  of  the  blank,  hostile  suspicion 
of  a  group  of  cows  startled  by  a  fluttering  coloured 
rag. 

Astarte  took  her  way  down  the  street.  Men 
astride  of  mules  or  asses  stared  straight  into  her 


122  REVELATION 

face,  turning  their  heads  back  over  their  shoulders 
when  they  had  gone  past  her.  Never  before  had 
she  walked  alone  in  the  narrow  ways  of  a  city 
She  could  stop  if  she  chose— turn  aside,  turn  back 
— follow  her  own  will.  It  was  wholly  delightful.  .  .  . 
A  low-browed  opening  gave  access  to  a  half- 
dark  den  where  wine — in  earthenware  amphoras 
or  goatskin  bags  whose  seams  were  anointed  with 
resin — was  on  sale.  The  place  was  kept  by  a  Samar- 
itan, and  Gentiles  of  half  a  dozen  breeds  drank 
there,  spat,  and  swore,  scribbled  obscene  jes 
the  walls  with  a  stub  of  charcoal  and  laughed  im- 
moderately at  them. 

Three  or  four  ol  Herod's  mercenaries  came 
slouching  out  of  this  place,  their  breath  flavoured 
with  coarse,  resin-tainted  wine. 

"Hullo!"  -aid  one  of  these,  stoppii.  rt 

Astarte  also  stopped.     She  was  face  to  face  with 
the  soldier  to  whom  she  had  been  forced  to  prom 
an  assignation  on  the  night  of  her  escape  from  the 
house  of  Herod.     Extreme   surprise  was   the  only 
emotion  of  which  she  was  conscious. 

"Hullo!  Blind  me  if  it  isn't  Venus!  You  didn't 
treat  me  right,  Venus.  Why  did  you  bolt  when  we 
made  a  fair  bargain?'' 

Astarte  said  nothing.  She  began  to  realize  that 
tms  encounter  might  be  dangerous.  She  looked 
at  the  man,  noting  his  earrings,  his  pock-marked 
flesh. 

"Nothing  to  say.  Venus?  Hades!  a  promise  is 
a  promise.     What  about  keeping  it  now?" 

With  a  sudden  forward  lunge  he  gripped  her. 
The  three  men  who  were  with  him  laughed  loudly. 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         123 

"Hand  her  to  me  when  you've  done  with  her," 
said  one  of  them ;  "she's  a  goddess." 

There  was  a  resounding  smack — Astarte  had 
slapped  the  face  of  the  soldier  who  held  her,  with 
all  her  might.  Then  she  ducked  her  head  and  set 
her  teeth  in  his  wrist.  With  an  obscene  curse  he 
loosed  her.  She  turned  to  escape  up  the  street — 
but  found  the  way  barred  by  the  other  three.  She 
faced  them,  the  length  of  satin  stuff  in  a  swirl 
about  her  feet,  her  loosened  hair  ruffled  like  a 
snared  bird's  breast,  her  eyes  furious. 

"Beasts!  Dogs!  Don't  touch  me!  Don't  you 
dare  to  touch  me !" 

A  door  set  deeply  in  a  stone  doorway  grated 
open.  In  the  opening  a  girl  appeared,  stretching 
her  head  forward  to  look  and  listen.  Her  over- 
dress was  of  blue  and  orange-yellow  in  wide  stripes 
with  a  satin  sheen.  She  had  a  brow-band  of  silver 
and  tassel-like  silver  ornaments  hung  against  her 
cheeks. 

"You  devil !"  said  the  man  who  had  gripped 
Astarte. 

He  clinched  with  her  again,  pinning  both  her 
hands  behind  her  back  with  one  of  his. 

There  was  a  jingle  of  silver  ornaments,  a  swish 
of  whisking  raiment,  and  the  impact  of  a  blow 
given  smartly  with  the  flat  of  the  hand. 

"Pig!"  said  the  girl  who  had  come  from  the  door- 
way. "You're  all  pigs — the  four  of  you!  If  I  were 
your  captain  I'd  scourge  the  hide  off  you — and  salt 
you,  and  string  you  up  to  dry!     Swine!    Vermin!" 

She  spoke  with  the  fluency  and  violence  of  a 
camel  driver.  Her  eyelids  were  blue-painted,  her 
lips  inhumanly  scarlet,  and  there  was  a  glint  of 


124  REVELATION 

gold   dust   on    her   checks.      About  e,   wh 

the  pock-marked  soldier  had  r<  1  involuntarily 

for  the  second  time,   she  had   thing'  an  arm   I 
with  silver  I  s. 

"What's  th  aid  a  brief 

final  authority. 

A    man — a    Roman — mounted   "ii   a    black 
had  drawn  rein.     He   ■  I,  and  his  white 

toga  was  bordered  narrowly  with  purpl<  'all 

negi'i  servants  were  with  him, 
whisk  with  which  to  dr  -  fr<>m  tl  I 

Astarte's  instantly   ra:        •  ntered  the 

grey  ones  of  Valeriu 

If  he  experienced  any  surj 
it.     The   four  mercenary  yarded  hi  ng 

like    hounds    who    have    been    kiik.-d       H< 
them  over. 

"Go  t<>  your  quarters,"  he  said;  and   ii 

though  a  w  hip  had   fallen 

The  four  slunk  hurriedly  away,  their  heads  low- 
ered. A  Xnmidian.  also  in  Herod's  service,  peered 
out  from  the  wine-den — and  drew  back  with  the  in- 
stant quickness  of  a  rat  hearing  a  footstep. 

For  some  moments  Yale-  with 

the   immobility    of   an   equestrian    statue,    I 
straight  ahead.    Then  he  set  a  hand  on  the  Stall i 
shoulder  and    vaulted   to    the   ground.      Ol       o\    the 
negroes  sprang  to  take  the  rein-. 

The  girl  who  had  encircled  Astartc  with  her  arm 
regarded  him  with  a  sort  of  defiance.  She  might 
have  been  a  mother  defending  her  whelp. 

Valerius  looked  at  her. 
"What  have  you  to  do  with  this?"  he  said. 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         125 

"Do!  I  slapped  one  of  those  pigs  on  the  jaw. 
The  swine !     I  heard  them  and  came  out." 

"You  did  well.  .  .  .  Now  go  back  into  your 
house." 

She  hesitated  a  moment  or  two,  then  released 
Astarte,  and  without  a  word  re-entered  the  deep- 
set  doorway,  and  the  door  grated.  .   .   . 

Astarte  stooped  quickly  and  caught  up  the  length 
of  satin  stuff.  Then  she  looked  again,  directly  at 
Valerius.  She  was  not  afraid  of  him.  No,  she  was 
not  at  all  afraid.  .   .   . 

"Well  .  .  ."he  said.  "What  are  you  doing  here, 
Astarte?" 

"Nothing.  ...  I  wanted  to  walk — to  see  the 
streets." 

"I  suppose  you  know  that  as  you  are  an  escaped 
slave  I  should  have  you  brought  back  and,  perhaps, 
flogged?" 

As  he  spoke  his  eyes  held  hers,  and  she  knew 
with  an  unaccountable  certainty  that  he  intended 
to  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  She  smiled  frankly  at 
him.  There  was  a  little  pause  of  silence  between 
them. 

"We  cannot  speak  here, ''said  Valerius.  "This  is 
a  detestable  quarter.  But  there  is  a  house  here- 
about that  belonged  to  a  Sadducee  whose  property 
was  confiscated  by  the  Governor.    It  is  not  far.  .  .  ." 

He  turned  and  spoke  to  the  negro  who  held  the 
horse,  and  the  slave  led  the  stallion  away. 

Astarte  found  herself  walking  a  step  or  two  be- 
hind Valerius  down  the  street  up  which  she  had 
come.  The  second  negro  went  before  them,  clear- 
ing a  passage  by  striking  right  and  left  with  an 
ebony  wand. 


126  REVELATION 

The  sound  of  a  conjuror's  rattle  was  audible 
he  squatted,  himself  unseen,  surrounded  by  a  little 
circle  of  men  and  boys.     But  as  Valerius  skirted  the 
group,    indifferent   as   a   contemptuous    god.    ev< 
head  turned  and  the  rattling  ceased.     Astarte 
aware  that  no  man  scrutinized  her  as  they  had  d 
when  she  entered  the  street  alone.   .    .    . 

With  a  little  stab  of  surprise  -he  realized  that 
they  were  entering  the  crooked  way  upon  which 
the  house-court  of  Dinah  and  Naomi  i 

did  not  want  t<>  see  the  widow \>  th 

the  tunnel-arch  that  gave  access  t"  the  hotl  art 

she    looked    straight    before    her,    tilting    her    chin 
upward   ever  so  slightly. 

Farther    on    the   .street    turned    to   the    lei 
lerius  paused   I  a    dour    set    in   a    wall. 

word   from  him  the  negro  put   his  shoulder   I 
door  and   forced  it  inward  a  little  way   with  some 
difficulty,    for    it    seemed    to    have    been    part: 
wrenched  from  its  hinges.     Save  for  a  !  ab- 

out eyesight,  who  sat  forward  with  di 
the  street  seemed  at  that  moment  to  be  deserted. 

"This  is  the  hous<         lid  Valeria 

Jle  entered  and  Astarte  followed  him.     The  neg 
remained  standing  by  the  half-opened  door. 

Behind   the   door   was   a   long   room   ending   i: 
horse-shoe  arch.     It  was  naked,  and  the  dark 
ways  on  either  side  resembled  upright  coffin 

'They've  stripped  this  place  very  thoroughly/' 
said  Valerius  over  his  shoulder. 

Astarte    was    interested.      Everything    intei 
her.     The  boredom  and  impatience  <*i  the  morning 
seemed  a  year  away.     She   did  not  question   why 
Valerius — whom  she  had  struck  in  the  court  of  the 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         127 

myrtles  for  kissing  her,  whom  she  had  struggled 
with  in  the  hall  of  the  feast — should  desire  to  speak 
with  her,  for  she  questioned  nothing,  taking  every- 
thing as  it  came.  It  did  not  even  occur  to  her — in 
the  novelty  of  the  moment — to  wonder  whether 
David  had  yet  returned. 

They  came  out  under  the  horse-shoe  arch  into 
a  court  with  a  tesselated  floor.  The  walls  of  this 
court  were  banded  with  broad  red  stripes.  A  cy- 
press rose  like  an  obelisk  hewn  from  green-black 
marble.  At  the  centre  of  an  octagonal  sheet  of 
water,  bedded  in  violets  and  primroses,  a  fountain 
jet  trembled  like  a  silver  flower.  The  slanting  am- 
ber light  of  the  mid-afternoon  laid  the  shadow  of 
the  cypress  across  the  fountain. 

Astarte  was  delighted.  This  place  was  as  charm- 
ing as  the  court  of  the  myrtles  in  the  house  of 
Herod.  Her  whole  nature  cried  out  for  many- 
hued  flowers,  pretty  pavements,  the  murmur  of 
artificially  conducted  water.  The  love  of  the  soft 
life  of  marble  houses,  with  its  assiduous  care  of  the 
beautiful  body,  its  hectic  excitements,  its  delicious, 
sensuous  idleness — the  life  of  her  mother,  and  of 
her  mother's  mother,  slave-dancers  both — was  in 
her  blood.  She  was  as  appropriate — physically  and 
mentally — to  such  a  life  as  an  elegant,  fawn-col- 
oured gazelle  is  appropriate  to  the  chamber  of  a 
Satrap's  favourite. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  "look  at  the  flowers!" 

With  a  little  laugh  she  scurried  past  Valerius, 
dropped  to  her  knees,  and  then  let  herself  lapse 
right  down,  lying  at  full  length  upon  the  violets  and 
primroses,  her  face  dropped  in  them.  As  she  drew 
in  the  faint  breath  of  the  crushed  violets  her  eyes 


128  REVELATION 

closed  as  though   the   lips  of  a   lover   were  against 
hers. 

A  man's  hands  slipped  beneath  her  arm;  he 

was  raist-d,  turned,  and  left   -itting  uprig!  the 

violet  bed,  a  trifle  surprised. 

"Now  we  can  talk.'  Valerius.     He  had  i 

tended  himself  a  foot  or  tv.  an- 

ing  on  his  ell><>\v;  and  couched  thus  upon  the 
cular  lawn  of  flowi  a  cynical  imir. 

tal   reclining  in   the   unchanging  afternoon   li|^ht 
the  Elysian  Fields. 

Behind   them   t!  <  -falling  water   murmur* 

like  a  shell. 

"Are  J    u  with  the  man  you  vith?" 

"Yes,"  said  Astarte. 

"1  )<«  you  live  in  t Hi ^  quartei 

"Yes — quite  near.     \\  <  d  the  where   I 

live   as   we   came   here.      1: 
through  an  archway  " 

Astarte  had  an   wered  with  the  ui.  in- 

dour    of    a    small    child.      But 

spoken  her  brows  wrinkled.     She  regarded  the  man 
doubtfully. 

Valerius  laughed. 

"Don't  look  so  troubled.     I  won't  give  the  order 
to    have    the    dovecote    robbed — I'm    not    1 
slave-master.    ...    1    wonder    whether   you    know 
that  you're  as  beautiful  as  a  godd' 

His  eyes  looked  straight  into  hers  with  a  peculiar 
effect    of   concentration,    which    I  lilt    of 

practice,  but  behind  his   eyes  his  brain   \. 
.    .    .   Beyond  an  archway  opening  upon  this  same 
street  was  the  lodging  of  the  man  who  had  wres- 
tled with  him,  Valerius,  on  the  night  of  the  feast 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         129 

and  then  escaped  with  the  girl.  That  lodging  should 
be  raided  at  nightfall.  The  man  would  be  flogged 
to  death  by  his  order;  the  girl  carried  back  to  the 
house  of  Herod.     But — in  the  meantime    .    .    . 

"Do  you  know  just  how  beautiful  you  are?"  he 
asked  again. 

Of  course  Astarte  knew.  Dido  had  told  her,  call- 
ing her  "Lady  of  Beauty"  from  her  tenth  year ; 
Dekerto  had  told  her,  Iris  had  told  her,  so  had  the 
pock-marked  soldier,  and,  lastly,  David.  And  be- 
cause she  knew  it  she  thirsted,  consciously,  for  ap- 
preciation as  a  droughty  leaf  for  dew. 

She  smiled  at  the  man,  but  said  nothing.  She 
was  enjoying  herself  immensely,  taking  what  the 
moment  offered,  as  always.  Her  eager,  life-hun- 
gry senses,  pleasurably  appealed  to  by  the  smell  of 
violets,  the  fountain-murmur,  the  sex-look  in  the 
steel-grey  eyes,  purred  like  a  fondled  cat. 

"What  do  you  want  to  speak  with  me  about?" 
she  said  after  a  lapse  of  several  moments.  "You 
could  have  told  me  I  was  beautiful  out  there  in  the 
street,  if  that  was  all." 

She  was  almost  laughing,  sitting  up  straight,  her  two 
hands  pressed  palm  downward  upon  the  flowers. 

"If  I  had  anything  to  say  to  you,  I've  forgotten 
it.  .   .   .  As  you  see,  I  am  looking  at  you." 

Astarte  laughed  right  out. 

"Oh,  you  may  look,  if  that's  all." 

She  turned  half  round,  lapsing  down  again ;  and 
lying  so,  almost  upon  her  face,  but  with  her  hand 
lifted,  extended  a  bare  arm  and  dabbled  her  ringers 
in  the  octagonal  fountain  pool.  To  the  nearness  of 
Valerius  she  was  vividly  alive,  but  her  inarticulate 
thought  did  not  adventure  beyond  the  immediate 


130  REVELATION 

moment.  As  naturally  as  a  plant  turns  to  the  sun. 
she  had  always  followed  her  impulse  unless  it  was 
thwarted  by  someone  who  held  over  her  the  whip 
of  fear.  Fear,  and  her  own  pleasure — impulses — 
were  the  only  law  she  knew.  The  law  of  the 
leopard,  the  gazelle,  the  painted  butterfly — the  law 
of  the  average  man  and  woman  who  invoked  the 
names  of  Jupiter,  Isis,  Artemis,  Ishtar,  or  Bail. 

A  hand  came  upon  her  outflung  arm.  She  turned 
her  head. 

"You  were  well  named."  said  Valerius.  "If  they 
set  you  up  in  any  temple  you'd  pass  for  a  flesh  and 
blood  goddess  of  love." 

"Would    1  ?     Then    1    wi  h    th<  y    would.    ...    I 
should  like  to  live  in  a  temple,  and  have  pet  do' 
and  peacocks,  and  do  as  I  pleased." 

"I  would  be  the  first  worshipper.   ..." 

Astarte  knew  that  he  was  about  to  kiss  her.  She 
did  not  exactly  want  him  to  do  so,  but  she  could 
no  more  have  turned  her  head  aside  or  offered  him 
the  least  definite  repulse  than  she  could  have  al- 
tered the  colour  of  her  hair  or  grown  white  wings. 

The  firm  hand  tightened  upon  her  arm.  Va- 
lerius's lips  were  against  hers.  .   .   . 

"Goddess!"  said  Valerius. 

Quite  inevitably  their  lips  met  again.  .   .   . 

"Aphrodite — I  worship  you  !" 

His  voice  was  a  trifle  hoarse.  .  .  .  Not  havine 
consciously  desired  him,  she  wished  now  with  a 
certain  amount  of  intensity  that  he  would  release 
her,  but  knew  instinctively  that  he  would  not.  .  .  . 
She  did  not  return  his  kisses,  but  her  cool  lips  re- 
ceived them  as  a  flower  might  have  done — neither 
seeking  nor  avoiding.  .   .   . 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         131 

IV 

"You're  divine,"  said  Valerius.  His  voice  was  as  cool 
as  a  hearth  on  which  are  the  ashes  of  an  overnight 
fire. 

Astarte  glanced  at  him,  but  uttered  nothing.  .  .  . 
She  was  aware  of  resentment. 

Valerius  stooped,  tilted  her  face  upward,  and 
briefly  and  quite  casually  kissed  her  lips. 

"We're  good  friends,  aren't  we?"  he  said.  "I'd 
waste  an  hour  or  two  with  you  if  I  could,  sweet- 
heart, but  I've  certain  matters  to  attend  to.  .  .  . 
We  must  meet  again  sometime — I've  a  feeling  that 
we  shall." 

His  lips  twisted  ever  so  slightly.  She  would  be 
lodged  in  the  house  of  Herod  that  same  night  .... 
He  kissed  her  again — as  carelessly  as  a  man  pats 
a  dog;  tossed  the  corner  of  his  purple-hemmed  toga 
across  his  shoulder,  crossed  the  tesselated  space 
between  the  fountain  and  the  horse-shoe  arch  with 
an  easy  deliberateness,  and  so  out  of  her  sight 
without  even  a  turn  of  the  head.  .  .  .  Astarte  sat 
alone. 

The  court  was  now  in  shadow,  though  the 
upper  half  of  the  motionless  cypress  was  still 
bathed  in  light.  The  violets  yielded  a  sense  of 
dampness  now  that  the  day-warmth  was  with- 
drawn from  them,  and  the  mosaic  stones  of  the 
court-floor  were  death  cold.  The  monotonous 
murmur  of  the  fountain  seemed,  somehow,  regret- 
ful, holding  an  intangible  quality  akin  to  tears. 
Tap! 

Something  fell  with  a  small,  clean-cut  distinct- 
ness that  startled.    A  fragment  of  mortar,  perhaps. 


132  REVELATION 

For  the  first  time  Astarte  became  really  aware 
of  the  parapeted  roofs  that  overlooked  the  court 
on  four  sides.  They  were  irregular,  sharp-cut 
against  the  lapis-lazuli  sky.  She  studied  them  for 
some  moments.  ...  A  feeling  of  staleness,  depres- 
sion, and  resentment  against  Valerius,  begotten 
by  hurt  vanity,  possessed  her. 

She  rose  up,  lifted  her  hands  to  her  loose  hair,     i 

A  sound  came  to  her — like  the  forcible  pushing 
inward  of  a  heavy,  sagging  door,  partially 
wrenched  from  its  hinges.  Then  the  smart  clatter 
and  light  thud  of  bare  and  sandalled  feet. 

She  lowered  her  hands,  turning  her  face  to  the 
horse-shoe  arch  as  naturally  as  a  deer  turns  its 
pretty  head  towards  a  sound,  but  without  a  trace  of 
the  deer's  innate  terror. 

A  dozen  men  burst  from  the  interior  dusk  be- 
yond the  arch.  It  was  like  the  tumultuous  appear- 
ance of  wild  beasts  in  an  arena  as  the  iron  doors 
open  and  the  wolves,  wild  dogs  and  hyenas,  jos- 
tling each  other,  pour  out.  They  were  unsavoury- 
appearing  men,  variously  bearded;  some  stunted, 
some  coarse-built. 

"There — there  she  is,  brothers  !" 

In  a  moment  Astarte  was  surrounded.  She  stood 
up  straight  as  a  lily,  with  knit  brows ;  instinct- 
ively a  little  afraid  now,  but  not  betraying  it.  The 
men  who  ringed  her  numbered  fifteen,  one  for  each 
year  of  her  age,  and  there  were  boys  also. 

"Adulteress !" 

"Gentile  adulteress !" 

"Daughter  of  a  pig !" 

Her  wrists  were  seized  by  hands  calloused  from 
flax-beating  and  mason's  work.  A  cobbler  spat  upon 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         133 

her,  and  the  spittle  moistened  a  strand  of  her  hair. 

"Bah !     Adulteress  !"  squealed  a  hunchback  boy. 

But  Astarte  did  not  understand.  She  was  divided 
between  anger  and  fear. 

There  was  a  movement — a  parting  of  the  little 
crowd.  .  .  .  She  saw  Naomi,  the  widow,  whose  yel- 
low face  was  twitching. 

"Ah-h!  .  .  .  Daughter  of  shame — daughter  of 
perdition !  Shame  was  your  mother  and  Abomina- 
tion was  your  father !  Oh,  woe  upon  me — woe 
upon  my  son — my  David!  .  .  .  Oh,  my  boy — my 
jewel — my  blessing !  .  .  .  Yes,  you  called  me — your 
mother-in-law — 'mule'  to  my  face,  but  I  saw  you 
go  by  with  a  Gentile — daughter  of  a  harlot !  and  I 
followed  you,  and  then,  returning,  gathered  to- 
gether the  honest  men  of  the  neighbourhood,  and 
they  will  bear  testimony  to  the  adultery!  .  .  . 
'Mule,'  am  I?  The  honest  wife  of  an  honest  hus- 
band, at  whom  not  a  living  soul  can  point  a  finger. 
-  .  .  You've  bewitched  my  David,  but  they'll  stone 
you  for  this.     Oh,  they'll  stone  you!" 

Her  hands  shook  like  those  of  a  person  with  the 
palsy,  her  face  worked  in  such  a  manner  that  her 
lips  became  impotent. 

"Adulteress  !  Gentile  pig !"  squealed  the  hunch- 
back boy. 

Now  Astarte  understood.  .  .  .  Because  the 
widow,  who  hated  her,  had  caused  these  men  and 
boys  to  hate  her,  she — Astarte — was  to  be 
stoned.  .   .   . 

The  widow  had  disappeared — or  at  least  she 
caught  no  further  glimpse  of  her.  The  two  men 
who  held  her  by  the  wrists  drew  her  forward  with 
a  wrenching  jerk.    She  shook  her  head  to  free  her- 


134  REVELATION 

self  from  the  hair  that  feel  across  her  face.  Her 
eyes  were  brilliant  with  fury  and  fear,  but  her  lips 
remained  dumb.  Under  such  circumstances  a  half- 
bred  dancing  girl,  purchased  for  so  many  pieces  of 
silver,  stolen  from  a  palace  and  threatened  with 
stoning,  might  have  been  expected  to  scream, 
abuse,  protest,  become  frantic  and  hysterical;  but 
in  Astarte  was  a  strain  of  Spartan  blood,  carrying 
a  capacity  for  silence  in  the  face  of  terror. 

She  was  under  the  horse-shoe  arch  now,  and  in 
the  dusk  of  the  naked  vestibule  where  the  door- 
ways gaped  like  up-ended  coffins.  The  body-odour 
of  the  two  who  hauled  her  forward  between  them, 
and  of  those  who  went  before  and  followed  after, 
offended  her.  But  beneath  every  other  perception 
she  was  terrified,  and  this  terror  mounted  very  hor- 
ribly, increasing  upon  her.  Her  heart  beat  in  a  way 
that  sickened  her.  .   .    . 

Outside  in  the  crooked  street,  where  there  had 
been  only  the  sightless  beggar  with  his  empty 
terra-cotta  saucer  for  charitable  coins,  there  was  a 
momentarily  augmenting  crowd. 

"There  she  is !" 

"Bah!    Shame  on  her!" 

"Hussy !" 

"Oh,  the  shameless  thing!" 

It  was  the  women  who  cried  out,  their  unbeauti- 
ful,  high-pitched  voices  similar  to  the  sudden,  hys- 
terical cackle  of  hens.  "Bah !"  screamed  the  dirty, 
sallow  children,  whose  quick  eyes  were  dark  as 
onyx.  To  them  it  was  a  wonderful  experience  to 
insult  unchecked — exhilarating,  delicious. 

"Stone  her — stone  the  Gentile  adulteress !" 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         135 

A  united  shout  went  up  from  the  ragged  crowd 
— men,  women  and  children. 

The  uneven  cobbles  of  the  street  were  beneath 
Astarte's  sandals.  She  was  hauled  forward,  the 
centre  of  a  cluster  of  men  and  boys.  The  hunch- 
back shambled  alongside,  anxious  to  keep  up  with 
the  others.  .  .  .  She  knew  that  they  were  passing 
the  tunnelled  arch,  and  turned  her  head  towards  it. 
Her  blanched  lips  opened. 

"David— David !" 

If  he  had  returned  he  might  hear  her  and  come 
to  her.    He  was  so  strong — like  a  young  lion.  .   .   . 

"David!" 

A  burst  of  malignant  cries  spattered  her. 

"Shameless !" 

"Stone  her!" 

The  savage  grip  upon  her  wrists  tightened. 

She  was  past  the  arch  now.  .  .  .  Hope  died.  She 
faced  that  which  was  unfaceable,  and  it  seemed  to 
her  that  fear  ran  in  her  veins  instead  of  blood.  Her 
wide-eyed  imagination  shrieked  out  piercingly 
against  the  thing  it  saw,  recoiling,  cowering,  with 
upthrown  hands.  Her  mute  lips  trembled  like  those 
of  a  person  shaken  by  penetrating  cold.  .    .   . 

"What's  this?     Where  are  you  taking  this  girl?" 

Directly  in  front  of  Astarte  stood  a  blond,  beard- 
less young  fellow.  It  was  the  Greek  whom  David 
had  brought  home  with  him  the  night  before — Cy- 
mon.  He  had  stopped  short,  speaking  loudly,  with 
a  sort  of  nervous  bluntness. 

The  straggling  crowd  halted.  The  stone-mason 
who  grasped  Astarte's  right  wrist  answered  him. 

"She's  an  adulteress,  and  we're  going  to  stone 
her.    Stand  out  of  the  way,  you!" 


136  REVELATION 

"He's  a  Gentile !"  shouted  a  voice. 

The  crowd,  compressed  between  the  walls  of  the 
street  which  would  not  permit  more  than  five  or  six 
men  to  pass  abreast,  made  a  unanimous  forward 
movement. 

Cymon  flung  up  an  arm.  His  blue  eyes  blazed 
like  sapphires. 

"Stop!  Don't  dare  to  take  this  girl  a  step  far- 
ther !  Where's  her  husband — you  cowards ! 
Where's  David?  I  am  his  friend.  You  shall  not 
bring  her  a  step  farther  until  he  comes!" 

His  worn-out  sandals  were  mended  with  string 
and  the  untrimmed  nails  of  his  hands  were  black 
and  broken,  yet,  at  that  moment,  he  might  have 
been  a  young  patriot  barring  with  a  gesture  the 
path  of  an  embattled  host — a  hero-figure  from  the 
wonder-stories  of  his  people,  who  had  bound  their 
laurels  about  the  white  altar  of  liberty,  upon  which 
had  burned  a  divine  and  golden  flame. 

"Out  of  the  way!" 

"He  insults  the  Law!" 

"Pig!" 

"Gentile !" 

"Stone  him  also !" 

A  big  negro — a  convert  to  Judaism — shouldered 
his  way  to  the  front.  His  eyes  were  red-lit  like 
a  gorilla's,  for  his  child-brain  had  reacted  to  the 
spirit  of  the  crowd,  plunging  him  in  unreasoning 
ferocity.  With  a  guttural  fury-sound  he  drove 
straight  at  Cymon.  Cymon,  underfed,  overstrung, 
barely  matured,  met  him  without  the  flicker  of  an 
eyelash,  striking  first.  But  the  grapple  was  only  a 
matter  of  moments.  .  .  .  The  negro  flung  him, 
very  violently,  to  one  side.     His  head  struck  the 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         137 

street  wall  and  he  lay  where  he  fell,  making  no 
movement.  The  negro  looked  from  side  to  side, 
showing  his  perfect  teeth  in  a  genial  grin  of  in- 
fantile vanity.     The  crowd  moved  forward. 

Astarte  knew  that  she  was  walking,  and  that  her 
wrists  were  grasped,  and  that  there  were  hostile 
people  on  either  side  and  behind  her.  Beyond  these 
three  facts  she  was  aware  of  scarcely  anything 
save  her  engrossing  terror,  which  seemed  to  be  an 
actual  physical  part  of  her.  .  .  .  For  the  second 
time  those  who  held  her  halted,  and  she  stood  still, 
looking  straight  before  her  without  paying  any  at- 
tention to  what  she  saw,  like  one  who  has  just  been 
informed  of  a  sudden  death,  or  who  is  recovering 
from  the  effect  of  a  stupefying  drug.  .  .  .  There 
were  voices — questions,  answers,  argument. 

Two  men — one  black-bearded,  one  grey-bearded 
— stood  together  a  pace  or  two  away  from  those 
who  held  Astarte.  They  were  Pharisees,  and  nota- 
ble Rabbis,  both  of  them.  As  they  spoke  their  eye- 
lids were  superciliously  lowered  like  the  insolent 
eyelids  of  a  camel,  as  became  persons  of  such  un- 
questioned moral  superiority.  Also  they  kept  very 
carefully  apart  from  those  they  spoke  with  to  avoid 
the  contamination  of  any  accidental  contact. 

"You  say  that  this  woman  was  taken  in  adultery, 
and  that  you  have  witnesses  who  will  bear  testi- 
mony to  it?" 

"Yes,  master." 

"Bring  the  woman  to  the  Temple.  .  .  .  This  is 
not  a  matter  for  the  rabble,  but  for  the  custodians 
of  the  Law.  .  .  .  Follow  us,  and  see  to  it  that  you 
behave  with  propriety." 

Astarte  was  walking  again,  but  more  slowly.  .  .  . 


138  REVELATION 

Her  eyes  told  her  that  the  two  stoop-shouldered 
figures — one  short,  one  tall — who  went  ahead  of 
her,  were  clothed  respectively  in  maroon-red  and 
in  a  drab  shade  of  blue  and  that  the  white  shawK 
that  covered  their  hands  were  fringed  with  tassels 
of  hyacinth-coloured  wool,  but  the  message  seemed 
meaningless.  She  ascended  a  street  which  climbed 
by  stone  steps  trodden  hollow  in  the  middle.  It 
was  nearing  the  hour  of  sunset,  and  the  ways  that 
zigzagged  between  walls,  blind  save  for  deep-set 
doors  or  an  occasional  built-out  window  with 
hinged  lattice  shutters,  were  sunless,  though  rosy 
light  dwelt  upon  the  fortress  towers  of  Herod  the 
Great,  and  upon  the  tops  of  the  cypresses  in  the 
gardens  of  the  Roman  governor.  .  .  .  Always  she 
seemed  to  ascend,  and  the  unrelaxing  grip  upon  her 
wrists  drew  her  up  and  on.  She  was  as  pale  as  the 
bleached  bones  that  lie  out  on  the  desert,  but  she 
went  with  her  head  lifted  as  at  the  first. 

They  passed  beneath  the  arch  of  a  marvellously 
proportioned  gate  of  yellowish-white,  red-veined 
marble,  surfaced  like  agate.  Astarte  understood 
that  she  was  crossing  an  evenly  paved  space  of 
great  breadth.  .  .  .  Now  she  ascended  three  steps 
and  passed  between  columns  of  a  semi-crystalline 
appearance  and  of  a  pinkish  colour.  Above  her 
head  was  a  roof  hollowed  out  in  small,  dark  blue 
cupolas  spangled  with  silver  stars.  Vase-shaped 
glass  lamps  were  suspended  in  rows  beneath  this 
roof,  but  they  had  not  vet  been  lighted.  Those  who 
had  hold  upon  her  halted  for  the  third  time  and, 
suddenly,  her  knees  gave  way.  She  was  down  on 
the  pavement,  her  back  rounded,  her  head  dropped 
forward.    She  felt  physically  sick,  as  a  person  does 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         139 

who  is  about  to  faint,  and  a  sort  of  granulated 
blackness  swam  before  her  eyes. 

"Master,  this  woman  was  taken  in  adultery  not 
an  hour  ago.  There  are  witnesses  who  will  answer 
to  it.  .  .  .  Now,  in  the  Law,  Moses  commanded  us 
to  stone  such.  .  .  .  What  is  your  judgment  con- 
cerning her?" 

It  was  the  eldest  of  the  two  Rabbis  who  spoke — 
the  taller,  grey-bearded  one.  And  as  he  spoke  he 
chafed  his  hands  softly  together.  Behind  his  speech 
his  thought  sat  like  a  spider  in  a  cranny:  "If  this 
Galilsean  heresy-monger — this  impudent  son  of  a 
Nazareth  carpenter — declares  for  mercy,  it  is  a 
blasphemy  against  the  Law,  and  can  be  reported  to 
the  Sanhedrin ;  if  he  condemns  the  woman  the  bulk 
of  the  rabble  will  turn  against  him,  for  the  punish- 
ment is  obsolete." 

At  least  a  dozen  heads  covered  with  prayer- 
shawls  were  inclined  to  catch  the  answer.  Behind 
the  flax-beater  and  the  stone-mason  who  held  As- 
tarte's  wrists,  the  men  and  youths  of  the  widow's 
neighbourhood — subdued  now,  and  a  trifle  overawed 
— looked  and  listened;  craning  their  necks,  scratch- 
ing themselves  absent-mindedly,  rubbing  elbows 
with  each  other  as  they  stood  beneath  the  spangled 
cupolas  of  the  colonnade. 

Astarte  was  upheld  solely  now  by  the  calloused 
hands  that  still  grasped  her  wrists.  There  was  a 
sound  in  her  ears  that  was  like  the  sound  of  the 
sea,  and  everything  was  dark.  .  .   . 

Between  the  two  Rabbis,  yet  a  little  apart  from 
them,  stood  the  man  who  had  entered  the  city  that 
morning  riding  upon  a  she-ass,  and  preceded  by  a 


140  REVELATION 

crowd    of    pilgrims    and    poor    folk    carrying    palm 
branches. 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  one  of  another  in  the  rank- 
smelling  cluster  behind  the  broad  shoulders  of  the 
stone-mason. 

"It's  the  prophet,  Jesus  of  Nazareth.  He  was  in 
our  street  two  weeks  ago,  and  cured  Eli.  and 
Daniel,  and  the  mother  of  Jethro.  .    .    .  Sh-h!" 

"Master,  what  is  your  judgment  concerning  this 
woman?" 

The  stoop-shouldered  grey-beard  with  the  trick 
of  softly  rubbing  his  dry  hands  together  repeated 
his  question. 

The  grumbling  coo  of  the  pigeons  perching  upon 
the  eaves  of  the  colonnade  under  the  saffron 
was  audible  in  the  little  waiting  silence   that  fol- 
lowed. 

Jesus   of  Nazareth  raised  hi  5,  and  turning 

his  head  slightly  looked  in  turn  at  each  of  those 
who  looked  to  him,  waiting  for  him  to  speak. 

"Let  him  who  is  without  sin  among  you  cast  the 
first  stone  at  her." 

He  spoke  with  a  very  clear  and  level  distinctness, 
gravely.  .  .  . 

"Coo-coo-o,"  grumbled  the  white  and  mottled 
pigeons  sitting  upon  the  eaves  of  the  colonnade. 

The  grey-bearded,  palm-chafing  Rabbi,  who,  in 
an  earlier  day  had  seduced — very  secretly — the  wife 
of  his  friend,  glanced  down,  sidelong,  towards  the 
pavement.  The  muscular  stone-mason  dropped  his 
gaze,  and  fumbled  with  his  free  hand  where  his 
open-fronted  garment  exposed  the  matted,  curling 
hair  upon  his  chest.  Before  each  man  of  the  circle 
stood  a  changing  picture — little  but  vivid — of  those 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         141 

acts  for  which  the  animal  in  each  was  responsible. 
And  each  was  aware,  also,  of  the  passions  which 
had  (been  denied  nothing  save  opportunity.  .  .  . 
The  imperative,  ever-beckoning-  lure  burned  in  the 
blood  of  each  one  of  those  who  would  have  bat- 
tered out  her  life  with  stones  and  to  its  constrain- 
ing each  had  yielded,  and  would  yield  again.  .    .    . 

There  was  a  movement — a  shuffling.  A  man, 
passing  between  the  pink,  semi-crystalline  columns, 
descended  the  three  steps  that  gave  access  to  the 
colonnade.  Another  followed  him.  The  grey- 
bearded  Rabbi,  whose  hands  were  still  folded  one 
over  another  as  though  in  the  act  of  chafing,  gave 
a  small,  dry  cough,  backing  softly  away.  Once 
clear  of  the  circle  he  turned  about,  retreating  with 
a  certain  amount  of  dignity,  as  though  in  pursu- 
ance of  a  previous  plan.  The  stone-mason  and  the 
flax-beater  simultaneously  released  the  wrists  of 
the  girl,  who  fell  forward  upon  her  face  as  though 
there  were  not  a  bone  in  her  body.  Wordlessly, 
sheepishly,  shamblingly  the  little  crowd  melted. 
Clat  .  .  .  clat,  clat  .  .  .  clat,  clat — clat — clat — the 
retreating  sandals  of  the  men  and  youths,  of  the 
black-bearded  Pharisee,  and  of  the  hunchback, 
smote  the  three  marble  steps. 

"Coo — coo-o,"  grumbled  the  pigeons  under  the 
eaves  of  the  cornice.  Above  them  the  sky  was  a 
bland  saffron  from  which  emanated  a  magical, 
shadowless  light,  softer  than  a  caress. 

Astarte  lay  face  downward  upon  the  pavement, 
one  arm  bent  under  her,  one  arm  outflung.  She 
was  aware  first  of  the  coolness  of  the  alabaster. 
...  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  prone  upon  a 
bed  of  lilies,  blandly  chill.    And  she  was  conscious 


142  REVELATION 

also  of  relief,  as  though  something  formless,  yet 
unbearable — oppressive  as  a  mountain  of  granite — 
had  been  lifted  from  her.  .  .  .  The  impulse  to  open 
her  eyes,  to  raise  herself  and  discover  the  place 
where  she  was,  came  to  her. 

She  flattened  the  palm  of  her  outflung  hand  upon 
the  pavement,  and  the  muscles  of  her  arm  tautened. 
In  a  moment  or  two  more  she  was  sitting  back 
upon  her  heels,  her  pale  face  singularly  limpid, 
veiled  in  the  cataract  of  her  hair. 

There  were  slender  pink  columns  ab<>ut  her  of 
great  beauty,  and  above  her  the  blue  hollow  of  a 
spangled  cupola — like  a  dwarfed  firmament.  And 
beyond  the  columns  a  beautiful  spaciousness  and  a 
noble  gate  tinted  like  ivory  that  has  mellowed  for 
a  hundred  years.  Doves  grumbled,  and  under  the 
diffused  light  the  marble  and  alabaster  surfaces 
seemed  to  glow  mildly  as  from  within.  But  there 
was  someone  standing  near  her.  She  turned  her 
face.  .   .   . 

A  kind  of  awe  stole  over  her,  permeating  the 
whole  fabric  of  her  consciousness,  yet  she  was  not 
afraid.  ...  It  seemed  to  her — inexpressibly — that 
the  columns,  the  smooth  spaces  of  marble  and  the 
great  gate  were  only,  as  it  were,  a  background, 
burnished  and  harmonious,  for  the  reality  and  sig- 
nificance of  this  man  who  looked  down  on  her.  .  .  . 
Sitting  back  on  her  heels,  she  gazed  up  at  him  be- 
cause she  could  not  do  otherwise.  It  was  wonder- 
ful to  look  at  him. 

"Where  are  your  accusers?  Did  no  man  con- 
demn you?" 

He  had  spoken  to  her.  .    .    .   Subconsciously  she 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"        143 

understood  his  question.  Automatically  she  an- 
swered him. 

"No  man,  Lord." 

"Neither  do  I  condemn  you.  Go  your  way ;  from 
henceforth  sin  no  more." 

A  sudden  rush  of  tears  came  to  Astarte's  eyes. 
It  was  as  though  a  sealed  spring  gushed  for  the 
first  time,  and  little  fragile  white  flowers  crowded 
about  it,  and  a  dove  moaned  like  the  utterance  of  a 
heart  broken  by  pain  and  joy.  She  wanted  to  sink 
right  down  and  touch  the  feet  of  this  man,  but 
could  not.  She  had  not  known  that  such  an  emo- 
tion as  reverence  existed,  and  love  to  her  had  meant 
passion,  capricious  affection,  or  desire.  .  .  .  Obeying 
him  she  rose  up  slowly,  her  eyes  bright  with  the 
tears  she  did  not  understand,  and  looked  to  him 
mutely  again,  and  then  passed  down  the  three 
steps. 

The  bland  sunset  sky,  which  had  begun  to  fade, 
was  above  her  head.  The  air  held  a  slightly  fever- 
ish after-warmth,  but  the  marble  surfaces  looked 
cold  now.  She  crossed  the  great  court  slowly. 
There  were  people — coming  and  going,  speaking 
together— but  she  paid  no  attention  to  them.  Pass- 
ing under  the  gate  she  paused.  A  cripple  sitting 
with  his  back  to  a  wall  and  his  two  withered  legs 
thrust  out  before  him  entreated  charity  in  a  whin- 
ing sing-song  that  rose  and  fell  with  the  advancing 
or  receding  footsteps.  Clip-clip-clop!  The  hoofs 
of  asses  struck  trippingly  upon  the  paving-stones. 
A  spiritual  condition,  similar  to  that  of  one  who 
wakens  from  a  dream  to  a  totally  strange  world 
in  which  he  has  no  place  at  all,  dawned  in  Astarte. 
vShe  shivered  slightly,  for  her  thin  linen  garment 


144  REVELATION 

lent  scarcely  any  warmth  to  her  body.  Where 
could  she  go?  .  .  .  Three  abiding  places  she  had 
known — the  house  of  Bel-Xamri.  the  house  of 
Herod,  the  house  of  David. 

David  .    .    .  He  had  kissed  her  on  the  e;  nd 

on  the  lips,  but  that  was  in  the  morning  very  early. 
Years  seemed  to  have  passed  since  then. 

She  went  forward  again,  because  it  seemed  bet- 
ter than  to  stand  still  and  have  men  and  women 
stare  at  one  as  though  their  e;  ere  bewitched. 

The  night  was  coming.  .  .  .  When  they  o>uld  not 
see  her  distinctly   they   would   not  .... 

She  went  on,  taking  her  way  always  where  there 
was  most  obscurity. 

It  became  entirely  dark.     Light  gl  1  weakly 

here  and  there  through  high-placed  lattices.     Fig- 
ures bearing  lanterns  that   shed  a  feeble  radiance 
passed  her.  She  felt  her  way  along  the  walls,  pr< 
ing  her  palms  against  them.     Fetid  odours   lurked 
like  toads  or  wandered  like  jackals.    On  et  de- 

scended step  by  step  like  a  staircase,  and  demanded 
an  extremity  of  caution,  for  it  was  .  k  as  the 

pit  of  a  sealed  well Vn  oily  yellow  re- 

vealed    a     square     doorway     openii  Someone 

laughed,  and  then  several  laughed  together — 
hoarsely,  as  men  do  who  may  draw  their  kni 
on  each  other  should  a  second  word  rowel  them. 
.  .  .  Astarte  came  gradually  out  of  the  darkness  to 
the  edge  of  this  light.  Here  she  paused.  In  a  room 
illumined  by  lighted  wicks  floating  in  sau> 
filled  with  oil  several  men  sat  on  low  stools,  or 
stood  leaning  with  their  backs  against  the  walls. 
Green  fig-leaves  covered  the  mouths  of  a  row  of 
amphoras.     Suspended  goatskin  wine-bags  had  the 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         145 

appearance  of  aborted  and  distended  animal  car- 
casses, and  their  grotesque  shadows  sprawled  on  the 
ceiling.  One  of  the  seated  men  was  the  pock- 
marked soldier.  His  silver  earrings  glinted  as  he 
threw  back  his  head,  drinking  from  a  terra-cotta 
bowl.  .  .  .  Astarte  turned.  The  glow  that  had 
filled  her  eyes  for  about  a  minute  rendered  the 
darkness  blacker  than  a  gulf  of  pitch.  She  took 
four  or  five  steps  and  stumbled,  her  knees  failing 
her.  Her  outstretched  hand  encountered  a  door, 
which  yielded,  opening  inward  with  a  grating 
sound,  and  she  fell  forward  across  the  stone  thresh- 
old. .  .  .  Some  moments  passed.  Light  fell  upon 
her  face  from  a  hand-lamp  that  was  held  above  her. 
Someone  spoke,  exclaiming.  .  .  .  An  arm  was 
passed  beneath  her  shoulders  and  she  was  half- 
raised.  She  opened  her  eyes.  An  ague-like  shiv- 
ering took  her  and  her  teeth  chattered.  She  saw 
a  smooth  cheek  upon  which  specks  of  gold-dust 
glittered.  Thin  bangles  jingled  as  the  girl  who 
supported  her  shifted  her  arm  a  trifle.  A  fragrance 
like  that  of  orange-blossom  was  in  her  nostrils. 
Someone  else  spoke,  and  then  the  door  grated  again 
as  it  was  pushed  shut.  .  .  .  Astarte  was  in  the 
house  of  Salome,  the  harlot. 


Dinah  lay  on  her  left  side  upon  a  mattress,  and  her 
breath  came  in  regular,  low  grunts.  A  midwife 
sat  on  the  floor  beside  her.  Rama  stood  looking 
at  the  woman  on  the  mattress,  her  delicate  brows 
knitted  with  reflected  distressfulness.  Dinah  had 
been  taken  with  pains  at  midday,  and  it  was  now 


146  EVELA1  [(  i 

late  afternoon.   .    .    .   She  wondered  how  soon 
child  would  be  born. 

A  whimper  came  to  her.     She  turned  instantly. 
raised  the  dingy  doorway  curtain,  and  \         I  bare- 
footed into  the  next   room.     Tobias  was  curled  up 
puppy-like  on  a  pillow,     lie  was  still  a 
whimpered    un< 

nipped  him  more  sharpl)   than  usual     Kama  went 
quietly    over    to    the    built-out    wind 
hinged  lattice   was   open. 

An  abrupt  outcry   -truth   the  ear,  undisting 
able,   but    venomous.      And   then   the   murmur   of   a 

.vd.  .   .   .  Rama  Eelt  the  ui 
Tobias  was  asleep  -at  that  moment  he  had  no  n< 
of  her.     Shi    i         cd  the  matted  fl< 
her    sandals,    which    wen-    on    the    threshol 

tided   the   naked    stair,  ai 
court.     'I  here  was  m  '  □  a  dog  in   it.     The  deli- 

cate  foliage  of  the  la  hung  lifi 

across  to  the  arch  and  paused  there  i:i  I 
shadow  of  it,  looking  first  up  and  then  down 
street. 

Ah!    here    was    the    crowd— €    ming     round    tl 
elbow  where  the  street  bent.     Tl. 
between  two  men.  .    .    . 

Kama's  hand  went  to  her  heart.     S  ir- 

ther  out.  .   .   .  What  had  happens 

They   were  quite  near  now.     She  knew   the   t\ 
men — one  was  a  stone-mason  and  the  other  .t  0 
beater.     They   held    the    girl   by   the   wrist-.      Her 
wonderful  hair  was  unbound,  her  perfect  face   I 
bloodless.  .   .  .  Rama's  thought  leapt  to  David.  Any 
trouble  which  visited  this  Gentile  girl  would  strike 
poignantly  at  him.     She  was  conscious  of  an  anx- 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         147 

ious  qualm  of  anticipatory  pain.  .  .  .  From  the 
doorway  at  the  head  of  the  flight  of  steps — she  had 
marvelled  at  the  Gentile  dancer  as  one  marvels  at 
goldsmith's  work  set  with  jasper  and  jacinths.  But 
she  was  alien  as  a  creature  brought  from  a  far 
country,  and  equally  unexpected  in  speech  and  ac- 
tion. Rama  had  never  resented  her  as  the  widow 
did.  She  looked  at  her,  spoke  with  her  sometimes, 
but  did  not  understand  her.  And  all  the  time  there 
was  a  dull  feeling  in  her  breast — like  the  sensation 
which  follows  an  injury. 

The  stone-mason,  the  flax-beater,  and  the  dishev- 
elled girl  had  reached  the  arch.  Rama  drew  back 
a  step.    She  saw  the  girl  turn  her  head. 

"David— David !"     And  then,  "David  1" 

It  was  a  cry  for  help. 

Instantly  there  was  a  clamour  of  voices. 

"Stone  her !"  squealed  a  hunchback,  shambling  by 
at  a  kind  of  trot. 

The  hand  which  Rama  had  caught  against  her 
breast  contracted.  .  .  .  The  crowd  hurried  past — 
men  and  women  and  half-grown  children  and  a  dog 
or  two.  Most  of  them  she  knew  by  sight  or  name. 
.  .  .  She  did  not  understand,  but  was  filled  with 
terror.  Perhaps  she  should  follow  them  to  see 
what  was  done. 

She  stood  beneath  the  arch,  uncertain.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  halt,  more  outcries,  raucous  with 
anger,  and  then  diminishing  sounds.  .  .  .  Presently 
she  again  looked  out  and  along  the  street.  At  some 
distance,  what  might  have  been  a  corpse  or  the 
fallen  body  of  someone  stricken  with  sickness  lay 
at  the  foot  of  the  wall. 

Rather    like    a    tentatively    venturing    roe    deer 


148  REVELATION 

Rama  emerged  from  the  protective  shadow.  .  .  . 
Bending  forward  she  looked  timidly  into  the  up- 
turned face  of  Cymon,  who  was  still  unconscious, 
for  the  big-muscled  negro  convert  had  handled  him 
with  the  insensate  violence  of  a  man-ape  frothing  at 
the  mouth.  At  one  side  of  his  head  the  fair  hair 
was  matted  with  blood. 

Rama  recognized  him.  Several  times  she  had 
seen  him  with  David — David's  arm  about  his  shoul- 
ders, their  heads  close  together  as  they  talked  in 
low  voices,  earnestly.  She  knew  him  to  be  David's 
dearest  friend — the  neighbours  spoke  constantly  of 
it  as  a  crying  scandal.  He,  like  Astarte,  was  a 
Gentile.  ...  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  whole 
neighbourhood  had  turned  against  David.  The 
sight  of  his  friend,  unconscious,  his  fair  hair  matted 
with  blood,  hurt  her  almost  as  pitifull  hough 

he  himself  lay  at  her  feet.    Soon  a  might  come 

this  way,  or  laden  mules,  and  tread  him  underfoot ; 
or  the  crowd,  returning,  might  finish  what  th 
had  begun.  .  .  .  Obeying  an  impulse,  she  stooped, 
and  laying  hold  of  his  lax  arm  began  to  drag  him 
painfully  towards  the  arch.  And  as  she  dragged  at 
his  dead  weight  it  seemed  to  her  that  this  was 
David  whom  she  was  rescuing  from  further  injury 
in  the  person  of  his  dearest  friend. 

In  the  shadow  she  paused,  trembling  in  every 
fibre  from  the  exertion,  her  forehead  damp.  It 
occurred  to  her  that  the  house-court  was  scarcely 
safer  for  him  than  the  street,  and  she  could  not 
draw  him  up  the  steps  to  the  room  behind  the  two- 
leaved  door.  There  remained  only  the  curtained 
den  where  the  widow  cooked — which  was  out  of  all 
question — and  a  similar  lair  opening  upon  the  oppo- 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         149 

site  side  of  the  court,  where,  during  the  last  week, 
no  one  had  slept. 

Everything  was  quiet  as  a  sepulchre.  Tobias, 
evidently,  was  still  asleep.  Drawing  a  long  breath 
Rama  began  to  drag  and  pull  again.  .  .  .  As  soon  as 
the  patched  blanket  that  masked  the  doorway  was 
between  herself  and  the  court,  she  relaxed,  leaning 
against  the  cold,  bare  wall.  Cymon's  inertness  lay 
squarely  upon  the  floor.  His  eyes  were  partly 
open,  as  is  the  case  in  death.  Was  he,  perhaps, 
dead?  .  .  .  The  girl  bent  down  and  laid  her  hand, 
shrinkingly,  upon  his  bare  chest.  .  .  .  No,  the  heart 
seemed,  very  faintly,  to  beat.  .  .  .  When  David 
returned  she  would  tell  him. 

Voices — the  widow's  voice.  .  .  .  Rama  checked 
herself  in  the  act  of  lifting  the  blanket  to  pass  out. 
They  might  wonder  what  business  she  had  there — 
They  might  even  see  the  Greek.  No  other  aspect 
of  her  situation  occurred  to  her — she  was  aware 
only  that  she  was  rendering  service  to  David.  In 
the  blanket  there  was  a  rent  through  which  she 
could  see  the  widow's  doorway,  and  the  flight  of 
steps,  and  the  arch.  .   .  . 

The  widow  was  supported  by  two  women.  She 
turned  her  head  from  side  to  side,  speaking  first  to 
one  and  then  to  the  other.  Rama  could  not  hear 
what  she  said,  but  she  saw  how  the  widow's  rheu- 
matic hands  gestured  in  a  helpless  way. 

There  was  a  low  sound — a  moan.  .  .  .  Cymon's 
head  moved. 

"Where "  he  said  in  a  faint  voice.  "What " 

"Sh-h!"  said  Rama,  down  on  her  knees  beside 
him. 


150  REVELATION 

"But  I  must  know  where  I  am — what  happened. 
.  .  .  Oh,  gods!  my  head.  .   .   .'' 

For  some  moments  Rama  remained  mute.  He 
had  seemed  as  inanimate  and  impersonal  as  a  block 
of  wood — this  friend  of  David's  whom  she  had 
dragged  to  shelter  with  such  extreme  difficulty — 
but  now  he  was  conscious  ...  a  blonde  young 
man  who  looked  up  at  her,  his  brow  furrowed  with 
pain.  She  felt  acutely  embarrassed — guilty,  also, 
for  he  was  a  Gentile.  Yet  he  was  David's  friend. 
.   .   .  She  spoke  in  a  whisper. 

"I  saw  you  lying  in  the  street.  David  is  our 
neighbour — I  knew  you  were  his  friend,  so  I 
brought  you  here.  But  you  must  be  careful,  and 
be  very  quiet  until  David  comes.  No  one  knows 
you  are  here,  and  they — they  might  harm  you  if 
they  knew." 

"The  crowd.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  remember — a  negro 
came  at  me.  .   .  .  Why  would  they  harm  me  now?" 

"Because  .   .   .  because  you're  a — a  Gentile." 

"I  see.  .  .  .  Then  why  did  yon  take  the  trouble  to 
bring  me  here?" 

"You're  David's  friend.  ..." 

"Oh  ...  I  see." 

There  was  a  silence. 

"My  head  feels  as  though  someone  had  split  it 
open  with  an  axe.  .   .   .  Will  David  soon  be  here?"' 

"Yes — I  think  so.     It  must  be  nearly  sunset." 

"Are  you  related  to  David — cousin,  or  anything 
of  that  kind?" 

"No.     I  am  Rama,  the  daughter  of  Saul." 

Another  silence.  Rama  rose  up  and  looked  again 
through  the  rent  in  the  blanket.    A  bland  and  beau- 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"        151 

tiful  light,  reflected  from  the  saffron  sky,  dwelt 
upon  everything — the  age-stained  walls,  the  acacia- 
tree,  the  refuse  heap.  Somewhere  a  pigeon  said 
queryingly,  "Coo-coo-o."  The  widow  and  her  two 
supporters  were  by  the  widow's  doorway.  Their 
blended  voices  resembled  the  subdued  babble  of  a 
querulous  brook.  Rama's  ever-anxious  thought 
turned  to  Tobias  and  Dinah.  To  her  backbone  she 
was  conscientious,  selfless,  maternal. 

Coming  quickly  from  beneath  the  arch  David  en- 
tered the  court. 

Rama's  heart  gave  a  great  throb  that  struck 
through  her  like  a  stab  of  pure  pain.  ...  In  his 
long  linen  garment,  with  the  broad  scarf  upon  his 
shoulders  fringed  with  tassels  of  hyacinth  wool,  he 
was  handsomer  than  the  son  of  a  king — the  poise 
and  turn  of  his  dark  head  was  regal,  triumphant. 
Pain — whose  full  significance  she  did  not  realize — 
constricted  Rama's  breast. 

There  was  a  long,  quavering  wail,  in  which  two 
other  unwearied  voices  joined.  Then  a  tearing 
sound — the  widow,  assisted  by  her  two  neighbours, 
one  of  whom  slashed  the  hem  for  her  with  a  knife, 
had  rent  her  outer  garment  from  top  to  bottom. 

"Oh,  woe  upon  me — woe  upon  us  both !" 

"Mother!    Astarte— is  she  dead?" 

That  panther-leap — that  incredulous,  agony- 
wrung  cry.  He  had  caught  the  old  woman  by  the 
wrist. 

Rama  locked  her  hands  together,  twisting  them, 
though  she  was  unconscious  that  she  did  it. 

"Dead,  do  you  say?  It  would  be  better  for  us  if 
she  had  never  been  born !    She  bewitched  you — my 


152  REVELATICT 

jewel,  my  heart's  pride — the  daughter  of  devils,  the 
shameless  adulteress !" 

The  widow's  voice  cracked. 

"What  do  you  mean 

Rama  heard  the  four  words  as  distinctly  as 
though  she  were  at  his  elb< 

A  man  had  entered  the  court — Dinah's  husband. 
A  woman  looked  down  from  the  window  with  the 
wooden  shutter,  and — drawn  by  some  instinct — a 
handful  of  listeners  had  gathered  under  the  arch. 

"David,  my  son,  it  is  hard  for  a  mother  to  speak 
the  shame  of  it.     She  has  dishoi.  u  with  a 

Gentile — the  neighbours  can  testify  to  it.  Me  she 
called  a  mule — and  now  this  scandal  is  upon  my 
head!      But    thcy\  ned   her.      Tht  stoned 

her,  David " 

"Stoned  her!  ...  In  the  name  of  the  living  God 
—is  this  the  truth?" 

He  had  faced  hah"  round,  seeming  to  speak  to 
everyone  who  heard  him.  His  mother's  wrist  he 
had  dropped  as  though  it  burnt  him.  lie  :-eemed 
taller  by  an  inch  or  more  than  his  actual  height. 

"Yes,  they  have  stoned  her.  ...  I  passed  them 
in  the  street  of  the  butchers  as  they  were  taking 
her  to  the  gate." 

It  was  the  husband  of  Dinah  who  answered  him 
— a  slow-spoken  man,  dour,  and  as  uncompromis- 
ing as  a  Pharisee  in  many  \va; 

There  was  an  affirmative  mutter  from  the 
shadows  of  the  arch. 

"Murderers !  Wolves !  Dogs  lapping  the  blood 
of  the  innocent !" 

His  quivering  upflung  arm  seemed  to  appeal  to 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         153 

the  lightnings  of  heaven.  His  brows  were  con- 
tracted like  those  of  a  man  upon  the  rack. 

"You  hated  her  from  the  first,  all  of  you,  be- 
cause she  was  not  of  your  blood!  So  you  spawn 
in  your  festering  minds  this  monstrous  lie,  and  wait 
until  she  is  undefended — and  set  upon  her  like  a 
jackal  pack!  A  helpless  girl — a  stranger — my  wife! 
May  the  curse  of  God  sear  each  one  of  you  who 
raised  his  hand  against  her!  May  his  vitals  rot,  his 
children  perish,  and  his  name  be  blotted  out !  From 
henceforward  my  mother  has  no  son.  I  renounce 
you — all  of  you ! — rats  gnawing  the  dry  husks  of 
the  Rabbis — crows  croaking  above  the  middens  of 
your  neighbour's  sins — blood-lusting  wolves  that 
hunt  only  in  packs !  I  go  to  the  man  whom  your 
Rabbis  have  rejected  because  they  would  reject  God 
himself  unless  He  came  quibbling  and  mouthing 
like  a  Pharisee — the  Man  of  whom  the  prophets 
spoke,  and  who  will  enter  this  city  on  a  white 
horse,  with  the  sceptre  of  Solomon  bringing  the 
kingdom  of  God!" 

He  might  himself  have  been  a  young  prophet, 
rent  by  agony  and  exultation,  and  trembling  like  a 
flame  of  fire.  With  a  swift,  fierce,  final  gesture  he 
flung  out  his  hands.  .  .  .  There  was  a  shuffling 
under  the  arch  as  those  who  had  stood  there  backed 
away.  David  turned,  and  without  a  glance  at  his 
mother,  or  at  the  husband  of  Dinah,  or  at  any  there, 
passed  straight  out  of  the  court ;  and  it  was  like  the 
passing  of  the  wind  of  the  desert  upon  whose  brow 
is  fire  and  whose  path  is  desolation. 

Rama  heard  herself  sob.  Her  face  was  wet  with 
tears. 

"Is  David  there?     I  thought  I  heard  his  voice. 


154  REVELATION 

but  my  head  throbs   so — like  a  dozen  hammers — 
that  I  can't  be  sure." 

Cymon  spoke  rather  faintly  from  the  floor. 

Rama  sank  to  her  knees. 

"David — has    gone,"    >he    said.  came — just 

now.    They  told  him,  and  he — he  cursed  them.  .    .   . 
He  will  never  come  back." 

"The  brute-!"  said  Cymon.     "The  skulking  cow- 
ards!   .    .    .    Do  you   know   whether  this   girl   v 
really  guilty?" 

"No.  ...  J  know  nothing." 

"Probably  she  was.  Hut  to  drag  her  away  like  a 
heifer  to  the  shambles  without  his  knowledge!  .  .  . 
And  now  he's  gone,  you  say?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  To — to  this  new  prophet,  1  think  he 
said." 

"I  know  who  you  mean.  .  .  .  Oh,  David,  David! 
If  you  had  listened  to  me  1  could  have  spared  you 
this!" 

He  spoke  like  one  who  groan>  in  spirit,  uttering 
his  thought  aloud.  The  hurt  that  lav  behind  the 
words  was  unmistakabh  . 

Rama  put  her  hands  over  her  face  and  began  to 
sob  suddenly  in  a  hopeless  way.  Her  slight  body 
shook. 

"What " 

With  a  grunt  of  pain  Cymon  raised  himself  until 
he  sat  up,  holding  his  bowed  head  between  his 
hands. 

"Why  are  you  crying?" 

"He — he  will  not  come  back." 

"Is  that  the  trouble?    .    .    .   Did  you  love  him?" 

"There  is  no  one — no  one  like  him.  .  .  .  He  is — 
wonderful.    Like  the  son  of  a  king.  ..." 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         155 

Rama  answered  him  in  a  faint,  shaken  voice,  be- 
tween great  sobs,  and  with  the  utter  simplicity  of  a 
soul  lucid  as  a  tear.  She  had  never  put  her  con- 
ception of  David  into  words  before,  had  never  even 
thought  of  him  articulately,  but  the  wave  of  an- 
guished feeling  that  had  broken  upon  her  dumb 
heart  swept  her  beyond  embarrassment  and  her 
habitual  shy  and  patient  silence.  Large  tears 
slipped  between  her  fingers.  Her  whole  inner  be- 
ing seemed  to  be  dissolving  in  an  aching  sense  of 
desolation,  like  a  pearl  in  bitter  vinegar. 

"I'm  .  .  .  I'm  very  sorry  for  you.  ...  It  would 
have  been  better  for  him  if  he  had  taken  you  in- 
stead of  the  other." 

Outside  in  the  house-court,  under  the  fading 
sunset  sky,  the  widow  sat  upon  the  lowest  of  the 
flight  of  steps,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro. 

"Oh,  my  boy — my  David.  .  .  .  Where  is  my 
David?  ...  I  have  no  son.  ..." 

It  was  a  monotonous  plaint,  monotonously  re- 
peated. 

A  cluster  of  women  spoke  together,  low-voiced, 
as  though  in  the  presence  of  grievous  sickness,  or 
of  a  calamity  too  great  to  be  fully  realized  until  it 
had  been  discussed  from  every  angle.  Ordinarily 
at  this  time  they  would  have  been  busied  with  the 
preparation  of  food,  and  the  widow's  cakes  baked 
with  oil  for  her  son's  evening  meal  have  been  fit 
to  take  from  the  oven. 

It  was  dark  behind  the  patched  blanket.  Rama's 
sobs  lessened. 

"I  must  get  out  of  here,"  said  Cymon.  "I — I 
want  to  thank  you.  I'm  grateful.  Hullo !  What's 
that?" 


156  REVELATION 

Tramp — tramp.  .  .  .  Thock !  The  grounding  of 
spear-butts.  .   .   .  The  squeal  of  a  woman. 

Valerius  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the  court 
wrapped  in  a  Roman  military  cloak.  Behind  him 
was  an  armed  guard,  lantern  bearers,  and  a  pair  of 
brawny  scourgers.  .  .  .  Within  an  hour  Astarte 
would  be  lodged  in  the  house  of  Herod,  and  the 
man  who  had  stolen  her,  chained  naked  to  the  iron 
rings  of  a  scourging-pillar,  would  writhe  out  his 
life  under  the  loaded  whips  as  the  blood  that 
spurted  from  his  torn  body  formed  a  widening  pool 
at  the  pillar-foot. 

"Search  this  place.     Clean  out  every  rat-hole." 

"There  are  soldiers  in  the  court!"  said  Rama. 

Cymon  was  on  his  feet  now. 

"Paid  man-killers!"  he  said,  between  his  teeth. 
"Tyrants'  tools!   .    .    .  What's  the  meaning  of  it?" 

Up  and  down  flights  of  steps  went  Herod's  mer- 
cenaries, driving  doors  inward  with  a  thrust  of  the 
shoulders,  ripping  curtains  aside,  and  bundling 
men,  women  and  children  out  into  the  open. 

A  hand  gripped  the  blanket.  .   .   . 

"Out  of  here,  you  two !"  said  a  coarse  voice. 

Cymon  went  first,  his  throbbing  head  well  up, 
seeming  to  defy  fate,  power  and  all  vested  au- 
thority, though  he  was  deadly  white  from  loss  of 
blood.  Rama  was  badly  frightened.  She  half  ex- 
pected a  butchery,  or  that  they  should  all  be  sold 
for  slaves.     Such  things  happened. 

"The  birds  have  flown,"  said  Valerius,  after  a 
quick,  contemptuous  survey.  "This  trash  is  of  no 
use  to  me.    They  can  go  back  to  their  rat-holes." 

He  gave  an  order  and  the  mercenaries  filed  out 
of  the  court.     His  two  negro  body-servants  held 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         157 

lanterns    for    him    as    he  |passed    under    the    arch. 

There  was  still  sufficient  light — save  in  the  deep 
shadows — to  distinguish  one  from  another,  though 
the  sky  was  ashen. 

"Who  is  this  man?" 

Rama  turned.  It  was  her  brother-in-law  who 
had  spoken  to  her.    He  was  looking  at  Cymon. 

"He  is  David's  friend.  I — I  saw  him  lying  in  the 
street.  ..." 

She  hesitated.  It  had  seemed  as  natural  to  suc- 
cour David's  dearest  friend  as  to  draw  breath ;  but 
her  brother-in-law  would  not  understand — she 
knew  instinctively  that  he  would  not.  She  seemed 
to  be  the  centre  of  a  circle  that  looked  curiously 
at  her,  as  though  she  were  a  stranger. 

From  an  upper  room  came  the  fretful  voice  of  a 
waking  child.  It  was  Tobias,  peevish  and  hungry 
— she  must  comfort  him!  But  her  brother-in-law 
stayed  her,  holding  her  by  the  arm. 

"There  has  been  overmuch  trafficking  with  Gen- 
tiles in  this  house.  .  .  .  We  have  all  seen — you 
cannot  cover  shame  with  words.  .    .   .  Go  to  him." 

Rama's  dark  eyes — shaped  like  those  of  an  ante- 
lope— widened  with  an  utterly  incredulous  terror. 

"But — but  I  have  done  nothing!  Oh,  please  let 
me  go  to  Tobias — he's  awake." 

"Go  to  the  Gentile  who  has  led  you  away  as  the 
Gentile  woman  led  away  David,  the  son  of  Simeon 
and  Naomi.     There  is  no  place  for  you  here." 

"It's  a  lie — a  vile  lie!  I've  never  laid  a  finger 
upon  the  girl.  It's  an  outrage  upon  her  and  insult 
to  me!" 

Cymon  was  furious. 

Rama's  world  had  shivered  into  a  score  of  frag- 


158  REVELATION 

tnents  like  a  dropped  water-jar.  She  stood  help- 
lessly, her  two  slim  hands  against  her  breast,  while 
the  frightened  tears  ran  down  her  cheek. 

"I  have  done  nothing.  .  .  .  Dinah  needs  me — 
and  Tobias.  .    .    .   Please  let  me  go  t<>  them." 

"Go  to  the  Gentile.  If  we  make  a  covenant  with 
sin  the  curses  of  the  Law  will  be  upon  our  heads. 
Go,  both  of  you." 

Not  one  of  those  present  uttered  a  word.     The 
husband   of    Dinah    was    as    highly    respected    a 
Rabbi  on  account  of  his  uncompromising  attitude, 
his  knowledge  of  the  Talmud,  and  his  practice  of 
fasting  twice  a  week. 

Rama  turned  very  slowly,  her  helpless  tears  fall- 
ing like  rain.  Like  one  who  walks  in  his  .sleep  she 
went  towards  the  arch.  All  her  short  life  she  had 
obeyed — docile  to  authority  as  a  domestic  animal. 
Her  brother-in-law,  who  ruled  Dinah  and  herself, 
had  told  her  to  go,  and  therefore  she  must  go.  .   .   . 

C'ymon  was  even  more  enraged  than  he  had  been 
when  he  bearded  the  crowd  that  held  Astarte. 

"This  is  inhuman — worse  than  tyranny!  Have 
you  no  hearts  to   feel — no  minds  to   reason  with? 

u  turn  this  girl — this  child — into  the  street 
mere  suspicion!  Gods!  it's  not  wonderful  that 
David  broke  with  you — I  don't  know  how  he 
breathed  the  same  air  for  so  long!  May  you — 
every  one  of  you — suffer  as  you  are  causing  this 
girl  to  suffer — that's  my  last  word!" 

They  heard  him  stumble  as  he  groped  his  way 
under  the  arch,  and  so  out.  .   .   . 

Rama  had  gone  a  little  distance  and  then  leant 
against  the  wall,  sobbing  like  a  creature  mortally 
hurt.    This  terrible  sobbing  seemed  to  be  the  only 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         159 

sound  in  the  dusk-filled  street.  After  a  longish, 
distressed  pause  Cymon  spoke  to  her. 

"If  you  hadn't  hidden  me  this  would  never  have 
happened.  It's  owing  to  me  that  you  are  in  this 
trouble,  though,  as  you  know,  I  am  not  to  blame 
for  it.  .  .  .  You  have  nowhere  to  go — I  haven't 
much  to  offer,  but  if  you  will  trust  me  you  can 
share  what  I  have.  ...  A  place  to  sleep — and 
something  to  eat.  ...  I  swear  to  you,  by  the 
ashes  of  my  father,  that  you  will  be  safe  with  me." 

He  saw  after  a  moment  or  two  that  she  was  in- 
capable of  a  decision — incapable  of  anything  save 
racking  sobs.  He  took  her  by  the  arm — awkwardly, 
gently.     She  did  not  resist  him.  .   .   . 

A  little  later  Cymon  sat  on  the  roof  that  was 
above  the  potter's  yard,  his  elbow  on  the  low  para- 
pet, his  chin  on  his  palm.  The  night  was  starless — 
like  a  black  tent.  He  was  no  longer  alone — he  was 
responsible  for  the  food  and  shelter  and  safety  of 
an  immature  slip  of  a  girl,  with  smooth  olive 
cheeks  and  the  anxious  dark  eyes  of  an  instinctive 
mother,  who  lay  huddled  upon  his  ancient  mattress, 
exhausted  with  weeping.  He  stared  into  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night.  His  head  ached  dully.  .  .  . 
What  a  frantic,  endless  struggle  it  all  was ! — and 
as  meaningless,  apparently,  as  a  dog  fight.  Why 
should  this  girl,  who  was  still  a  child,  and  as  harm- 
less as  a  little  heifer,  be  tortured  by  blind  circum- 
stance as  a  criminal  is  tortured  on  the  rack?  And 
David  had  been  betrayed  by  his  pathetic,  ungovern- 
able love.  ...  As  for  himself  he,  who  had  fore- 
sworn everything  female,  had  a  battered  head  for 
defending  an  adulteress  and  an  outcast  girl  upon 
his  hands.     It  was  certainly  humorous.  .    .    .  Oh, 


160  REVELATION 

gods!  how  his  head  ached!  Propping  both  his  el- 
bows on  the  parapet,  he  pressed  the  palms  of  his 
hands  against  his  temples.  .  .  .  There  was  no  sound 
from  the  girl.     He  hoped  she  had  fallen  asleep.     It 

would  do  her  good. 

***** 

The  rim  of  a  round  cup  was  set  to  Astarte's  lips. 
She  opened  her  lips  and  tasted  wine.  It  ran  through 
her  like  liquid  warmth — like  life.  She  sat  up 
straight,  and  the  arm  that  had  supported  her  shoul- 
ders was  withdrawn. 

A  lamp  sat  on  the  floor  in  its  own  circle  of  light. 
On  one  side  was  a  built-out  window,  inset  with  lat- 
tice-work. A  bright  red  mattress,  very  new,  was 
beneath  Astarte,  and  a  girl  knelt  beside  her.  As- 
tarte  recognized  this  girl. 

"You  came  to  me  in  the  street,"  she  said.  "You 
spoke  to  the  soldiers.   ..." 

"Of  course  I  did — the  dirty  swine !  .  .  .  How  do 
you  feel  now?" 

"Better.  ...  I  don't  remember  just  what  hap- 
pened." 

"You  fainted — right  on  our  threshold.  We  found 
you  there,  my  mother  and  I.  .  .  .  That  fellow  on 
the  black  stallion — that — Roman — has  he  ill-treated 
you?" 

Astarte  looked  into  the  girl's  sympathetic 
painted  eyes.  .  .  .  She  was  speaking  of  Valerius — 
yes,  it  was  Valerius  whom  she  meant.  .  .  .  Sud- 
denly Astarte  put  her  hands  over  her  face  and  be- 
gan to  weep,  and  this  weeping  shook  her  body. 

The  girl  clasped  her  in  her  arms,  rocking  her  to 
and  fro  as  though  she  were  a  small  child. 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         161 

"There — there.  .  .  .  Don't  tell  me  anything  then ! 
.   .   .  Don't  cry.     Hush,  hush.  ..." 

Presently  Astarte  ceased  weeping,  and  the  girl 
offered  her  bread  and  a  cake  of  raisins.  The  weep- 
ing had  rendered  her  hungry,  and  she  ate,  and  felt 
better  for  having  eaten. 

"My  name  is  Salome,"  said  the  girl.  "What  is 
your  name?" 

"Astarte." 

"Have  you  nowhere  to  go?" 

"I— I  think  not." 

"Then  you  shall  stay  with  me — you  shall  be  my 
sister." 

She  clasped  Astarte  in  her  arms  again  with  some- 
thing of  the  passion  of  a  mother  hugging  a  child. 
Her  skin  and  her  raiment  both  seemed  impregnated 
with  the  orange-blossom  fragrance. 

When  the  lamp  was  extinguished  and  Astarte  lay 
alongside  Salome  upon  the  mattress,  she  did  not 
sleep,  but  remained  with  open  eyes,  thinking.  She 
seldom  consciously  thought — sensations,  emotions, 
actions  had  been  the  stuff  of  her  life.  .   .   . 

She  understood  that  the  man  in  white  raiment 
in  the  place  of  the  blue  and  silver  cupolas  had 
saved  her  from  being  stoned.  .  .  .  Her  eyes  rilled 
with  tears  as  they  had  done  when  she  sat  looking 
up  at  him.  It  seemed  to  her  that  to  sit  at  his  feet 
would  be  like  couching  in  unstirred  grass  strewn 
with  flowers  at  the  foot  of  a  refuge-place  where 
the  tempests  folded  their  wings.  .  .  .  "Neither  do 
I  condemn  you."  He  did  not  hate  her  like  the 
others,  the  men  and  boys  and  the  widow.  .  .  .  Did 
David  hate  her  now?  She  knew  instinctively  that 
his  single-hearted  passion  for  her  and  her  self-sur- 


162  REVELATION 

render  to  Valerius  were  incompatible.  If  they  had 
told  him  he  must  surely  hate  her.  .  .  .  And  she 
wanted  him!  She  wanted  to  lie  in  his  arms,  their 
Tips  pressed  together,  the  care,  and  worship,  and 
rapture   of  his   love  flattering  her  exquisitely. 

She  turned  half  over,  flinging  out  an  arm  that 
seemed  to  seek. 

"David.  .    .   .     David.  .   .   ." 

It  was  a  broken  murmur. 

Her  throat  contracted,  hurting  her.  Tears  welled 
up,  wetting  the  cushion  that  was  beneath  her  cheek. 
There  was  a  dull,  craving  ache  in  her  breast, 
was  as  ignorant  of  any  sense  of  guilt  as  a  lithe 
forest  creature  ;  but  she  suffered  as  such  a  creature 
might,  who,  going  soft-footed  through  the  wild 
places,  instinct-led,  set  its  velvet  paw  in  a  trap  and 
is  gripped  by  the  steel  teeth  and  held. 

Beside  her  Salome  slept   serenely,  but    tl 
in  Astarte's  breast  became  unbearable.    .    .    .     To 
ease  it  she  crouched  again  in  spirit  at  the  feet  of 
the  man  who  had  saved  her.    There  was  resl  at  his 
feet,  and  refuge. 

£  $  *  * 

When  David  left  the  house-court  he  went  blindly, 
conscious  only  of  the  mental  agony  that  dizzied 
him — urging  him  forward  as  a  merciless  spur  urges 
a  shuddering  horse.  .  .  .  They  had  stoned  her. 
She  was  dead — mangled.  .  .  .  The  colour  of  blood 
swam  before  him.  It  would  be  such  exquisite  satis- 
faction— such  relief  to  kill.  If  his  two  hands  were 
only  upon  one  of  those  who  had  taken  her  !  Strength 
surged  through  him  like  an  elemental  force.  Rut 
he  must  find  her — he  must!  That  was  the  first,  the 
most  imperative  need.    They  would  have  taken  her 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         163 

outside  the  city.  ...  It  was  growing  dark.  He 
walked  as  one  seems  to  walk  in  a  nightmare — 
rapidly,  yet  without  knowing  which  direction  to 
take.  He  was  unable  to  think  connectedly  or  to 
formulate  any  definite  plan  for  his  seeking — the 
agony  had  been  too  sudden  and  too  great ;  and  his 
case  was  little  better  than  that  of  a  somnambulist 
driven  by  an  incredibly  hideous  dream.  He  spoke 
to  at  least  a  score  of  people,  but  they  did  not  seem 
to  understand.  .  .  .  Walls  barred  his  way  or  con- 
fronted him  unexpectedly.  He  climbed  slopes,  de- 
scended hollows,  crossed  open  spaces.  Several 
times  he  called  her  name.  .  .  .  They  had  planned 
to  take  bread  and  olives,  and  go  out  together  into 
the  spring — to  see  the  new  green  leaves  of  the  fig- 
trees  in  the  gardens  below  the  city  that  were  fertil- 
ized by  the  blood  of  the  sacrifices ;  and  the  fragile 
white  briar  roses  spreading  hither  and  thither  over 
the  stony  ground.  .   .   . 

He  uttered  an  inarticulate  sound,  like  a  man 
sharply  injured,  and  became  conscious  of  the  place 
where  he  was.  The  dark,  sprawling  shapes  of  non- 
descript, tent-like  shelters  were  on  either  hand, 
for  he  was  in  a  ragged,  outer  fringe  of  the  walled 
city.  Furtive  dogs  slunk  jackal-like  with  intucked 
tails.  Here  and  there  was  the  licking  glimmer  of 
a  hearth-flame,  rubbish-fed.  Something  pallid 
seemed  to  lie  prostrate  upon  the  earth.  .  .  .  Was 
it  the  body  of  a  girl  in  a  white  linen  garment? 

David's  soul  withered  within  him.  He  went  for- 
ward as  though  drawn  by  devil's  cords.  A  pebble 
turned  under  the  foot  of  a  skulking  dog.  Oh,  God! 
He  gritted  his  teeth  together  in  order  to  remain 
silent.  .  .  .     But  the  pallid  thing  was  only  the  pros- 


164  RE\  ELATION 

trate  headstone  of  a  grave,  white-washed  so  that 
the   passer-by   might   notice    and   avoid   it,   and 
escape  unconscious  defilement.     lie   went  on  past 
it,  the  horror  still  seated  in  his  soul.  ...      It  came 
to  him  with  an  immeasurably  desolate,  nightmarish 
certainty  that  he  should  never  find  her — that  t! 
had  buried  her  immediately  in  some  unmarked  pit 
or    hollow,    and    then    hidden    away    rat-like    from 
his  vengeance  in  the  black  crannies  of  the  intrii 
city.      I!':   could  have    sobbed   aloud   in   his   furi 
impotence  as  this  conviction  fastened  upon  him.  .  .  . 

Opposite,  across  the   Valley   of  the   Kidron,  th^ 
darker    darkness    of    the    long    M<>unt    of    Oli 
loomed.     Jesus  of   Nazareth   lodged   there  nightly 
beneath  the  two  ancient  cedar-trees  that  cr< 
it.     One  of  his  followers,  Simon   Bar-Jona,  a  Gali- 
laean  fisherman,  had  told  him  so.  .   .   .      lie  was  the 
Deliverer,  the  Mi      ah.  the  Holy  One  of  Israel,  and 
the  empire  of  God  was  certainly  at  hand.     The  illu- 
mination  which  had  come  while  the  country   folk 
streamed    past    carrying    palm-branches    had    b< 
confirmed  through  the  long,  golden  afternoon  when 
David,  one  of  the  inner  circle  of  listeners,  I  tod 

close  to  the  man  who  was  reputed  to  be  the  son  of 
a  carpenter  of  Nazareth  :  hearing  his  statements, 
which  were  simple,  graphic,  yet  delivered  with 
serene  and  absolute  authority,  conscious  of  the  in- 
communicable influence  of  his  personality,  which 
some  might  resent  with  a  kind  of  angry  fear,  and 
others  bend  their  knees  to,  yet  none  could  ignore.  .  . 

The  memory  of  those  rapt  afternoon  hours  shone 
like  a  mellow  lamp-flame  in  a  place  of  horrible 
darkness.  .  .  .  Behind  him  lay  the  city  like  a 
gloomy  cloud  pricked  here  and  there  with  needle- 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         165 

points  of  light  that  were  yellow  like  the  lidless  eyes 
of  adders,  and  now  his  bloodless  face  was  set 
towards  the  Mount  of  Olives. 

A  breathing  of  wind,  soft  with  the  strange, 
fevered  mildness  of  the  spring,  sighed  through  the 
budding  willows  that  fringed  the  brook,  Kidron,  at 
the  bottom  of  the  valley.  The  dew  of  sweat  on 
David's  forehead  was  as  icy  cold  as  moisture  on 
the  brow  of  the  dead.  He  began  to  climb  the  slopes 
of  the  hill,  encompassed  by  the  starless  darkness 
against  which  the  crowding  olive-trees  were  a 
denser  obscurity.  ...  It  was  almost  pleasurable 
to  stumble  over  stones,  to  put  aside  branches  that 
whipped  the  face,  to  gasp  for  difficult  breath  with 
a  taste  of  blood  in  one's  mouth — it  was  a  species  of 
relief. 

The  light  of  a  little  fire  kindled  upon  the  ground 
showed  through  the  small-leaved  foliage  of  the 
gnarled  olive-trees.  Four  men  sat  about  it.  A 
water-gourd,  evidently  empty,  lay  on  its  side,  and 
one  of  them  was  munching  bread.  David  came 
into  the  light  of  the  fire.  The  men  looked  up  at 
him. 

"I  have  come  to  join  you,"  said  David.  "Where 
is  the  Master?" 

His  voice  was  level,  but  curiously  toneless. 

One  of  the  four  got  up.  It  was  the  fisherman, 
Simon  Bar-Tona.  He  was  a  shortish,  sturdily-built 
man  with  a  beard,  very  tanned ;  of  a  leonine  breadth 
across  the  brow,  with  nervous,  well-modelled 
nostrils,  and  dark  eyes  that  were  filled  with  a  quick 
life. 

"You're  welcome,"  he  said.  "Didn't  you  speak  to 
me  this  afternoon?  ,  .  .     The  Master  is  yonder"— 


166  REVELATION 

he  indicated  the  crest  of  the  hill  that  rose  behind 
them — "speaking  with  God.  .  .  .  He  will  be  with 
us  soon." 

David  sat  down,  his  body  ^ent  'forward,  his 
elbows  resting  on  his  knees.  They  offered  him 
bread,  but  he  shook  his  head  slightly,  refusing  it. 
He  stared  at  the  fire,  and  now  his  body  ached  all 
over  as  though  he  had  been  beaten.  The  others 
spoke  among  themselves.  There  was  Simon ;  an- 
other fisherman  named  Andrew ;  a  slim,  dark  lad 
of  sixteen  or  seventeen,  whom  they  called  John, 
and  whose  face — the  skin  clear  olive,  the  lips  ex- 
quisitely cut,  was  of  a  singular  beauty  ;  and  Judas, 
a  sallow,  shrewd-appearing  man,  who  might  have 
been  a  money-changer.  They  all  had  upon  them 
the  patched  clothing  of  beggars. 

"In  the  country  about  Jerusalem  the  pebbles  will 
be  changed  to  pearls  and  precious  stones — all  the 
Rabbis  who  have  studied  the  prophets  teach  this," 
said  Judas,  as  though  continuing  a  statement. 
"Jerusalem,  as  the  Al  essiah's  city,  will  be  the  greatest 
city  in  the  world,  and  the  richest.  The  paving- 
stones  in  the  streets  will  be  blocks  of  gold.  .  .  . 
Of  course  the  first  is  a  miracle,  but  we  shall  have 
the  spoils  of  all  the  Gentile  towns  to  pick  and  choose 
from.  .  .  .  The  Master  is  widely  known  now — 
it's  three  years  since  he  began  to  heal  the  people, 
and  that  crowd  to-day  was  promising.  I  imagine 
he  should  soon  proclaim  himself — very  soon.  .  .  . 
We'll  be  recompensed  then  for  this  tramping  and 
begging — we'll  live  like  High  Priests." 

His  eyes  kindled  with  an  avid,  visionary  enthu- 
siasm— like  the  shrewd  eyes  of  a  merchant  vision- 
ing  a  fabulous  extension  of  his  business.     The  lad, 


"A  WOMAN  TAKEN  IN  ADULTERY"         167 

John,  did  not  seem  to  hear  him.    Andrew  nodded, 
munching  at  a  crust  of  bread. 

The  fire  died  down  somewhat,  and  the  night 
drew  closer  in  upon  them.  Across  the  Valley  of 
the  Kidron  the  city,  seated  on  its  hill,  was  dark, 
but  southward  where  the  intersecting  Valley  of 
Hinnom  lay  there  was  a  flicker  of  flames.  Here 
undying  fires  were  fed  with  the  offal  of  the  city 
and  the  Temple,  and  the  place  of  this  burning  was 
called  Gehenna.  A  jackal  barked,  and  was  answered 
by  another.  Away  to  the  right,  mid-way  down  the 
hill-side,  a  pipe  twittered  like  a  nocturnal  cricket. 
Some  boy  dwelling  in  the  matting-covered  booths 
of  those  who  vended  doves  for  Temple-offerings 
was  making  a  little  music  for  himself — or  perhaps 
for  some  twelve-year-old  girl. 

David  continued  to  stare  into  the  dwindling  fire. 
.  .  .  The  heart  of  it  was  red-gold,  like  Astarte's 
hair.  .  .  .  They  had  dragged  her  away,  and  cast 
great  stones  upon  her  until  her  blood  stained  the 
stones,  and  the  ground,  and  trickled  from  between 
her  lips.  .  .  .  Oh — devils!  .  .  .  Why  had  he  let 
them  live?  He  had  been  dazed — stunned.  They 
could  be  found  and  killed — killed  like  shrieking  rats  ! 
Blood  for  blood — 

He  found  himself  on  his  feet,  his  muscles  tense 
as  tautened  cords,  invested  with  an  extraordinary 
sense  of  lightness  as  though  fury  had  equipped 
him,  spiritually,  with  the  wings  of  the  striking 
hawk.  Simon  had  risen  also. 
"Here  is  the  Master,"  he  said. 
Without  any  conscious  volition  David  turned. 
The  obscurity  of  the  night  had  rifted,  and  in  the 
east  there  was  a  strewing  of  small,  misty  stars.    A 


168  REVELATION 

man  in  white  raiment  was  coming  towards  them 
downhill  between  the  indistinct  olive-trees,  through 
whose  foliage  the  small  stars  were  visible.  David's 
clenched  hands  relaxed.  He  drew  a  deep,  unsteady 
breath.  .  .  .  His  passion  of  fury  had  fallen  from 
him,  and  his  spirit  was  like  an  empty  rrlade  set 
round  with  funereal  cypresses — a  void  that  waited. 


PART  III 

THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL, 
AND  A  GARDEN 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL, 
AND  A  GARDEN 


"Iris — come  out  here  and  look !     Come  out,  Iris." 

It  was  Semla  who  called.  She  knelt  by  the  balus- 
trade of  the  gallery  upon  which  the  dancers'  half-lit 
chamber  opened.  Helen  was  with  her,  and  Amytis, 
the  milk-skinned  Persian.  The  fluted  columns  of 
the  gallery  were  caressed  by  pure  sunlight,  while 
the  court  below  lay  in  translucent  shadow,  for  the 
morning  was  very  young. 

"What  is  there  to  see?  Helen's  Nubian  loafing 
in  the  court  like  a  great  black  bull,  or  the  slaves 
sprinkling  rose-water  on  the  pavement?" 

The  voice  that  came  from  beyond  the  spangled 
blue  curtains  was  ill-tempered. 

"Oh,  you're  peevish,"  said  Helen  across  her 
polished  shoulder.  "And  leave  my  Nubian  alone, 
or  I'll  think  you're  jealous.  .  .  .  Perhaps  she  is, 
girls.  Valerius  isn't  so  wonderful,  anyway,  even  if 
he  did  give  her  a  necklace." 

"Sh-h!"  said  Semla.  "Don't  let's  quarrel  unless 
we've  nothing  else  to  do.  .  .  .  Iris,  you're  a  lazy- 
bones !  There's  a  crowd  in  the  court.  Come  out 
and  look." 

"Yes,  come  out !"  called  Amytis  in  her  pretty 
child's  voice.  At  fourteen  she  was  scarcely  as 
mature  as  a  Syrian  girl  of  eleven. 

171 


172  REVELATION 

After  a  moment  or  two  the  curtains  were  parted, 
and  Iris,  blond  as  Aphrodite,  her  body  blurred  by 
a  diaphanous  Greek  robe  caught  on  either  shoulder 
with  a  silver  brooch,  crossed  very  slowly  to  the 
balustrade.  The  rose  flush  upon  her  cheeks  had 
deepened  to  a  glow,  there  were  violet  shadows  be- 
neath her  eyes,  and  she  looked  sleepy. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said,  and  she  still  spoke  un- 
amiably. 

The  court  was  choked  with  a  crowd.  The  three 
palace  girls  kneeling  by  the  alabaster  balustrade 
looked  down  on  red  skull-caps,  twisted  turbans,  and 
head-cloths  bound  with  cords  of  camel's  hair. 
Against  one  of  the  vermilion  columns  that  were 
raised  two  steps  above  the  level  of  the  court  Val- 
erius leaned  with  folded  arms.  He  was  helmeted. 
and  his  body-harness  was  overlaid  with  golden 
scales.  Magnificent  as  a  contemptuous  Mars  he  re- 
garded the  crowd  as  any  mentally  full-statnred  man 
might  regard  a  rabble  of  half-wits.  Shrill,  unintel- 
ligible voices  cried  out.  Hands  shot  up,  the  fingers 
extended  as  though  clutching  at  some  invisible 
object. 

"I  don't  know  what  it's  all  about.  There's  some- 
thing going  on  in  the  banquet-hall  just  behind  those 
columns — I  wish  I  could  see.   ..." 

Semla  leaned  over  the  balustrade,  craning  her 
neck.  A  dimple  on  her  cheek  came  and  went  as  her 
lips  parted. 

"We  didn't  see  them  come  into  the  court,"  said 
Amytis.  "We  heard  them  and  came  out  here  to 
look." 

"Oh — there's  Leander !"  said  Helen  suddenly. 
"There's  your  boy,  Semla.     Do  you  see  him?" 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  173 

At  the  foot  of  the  open  staircase  a  blond  young 
fellow  had  halted,  his  brows  bound  with  a  silver 
fillet. 

"Go  down  to  him,"  said  Helen,  giving  Semla  a 
nudge.  "He  doesn't  know  much,  but  perhaps  he 
can  tell  you  something.  Doesn't  he  look  a  mother's 
darling  with  that  pretty  fillet,  girls?" 

The  young  man  looked  up.  Semla  waved  her 
hand  to  him,  sprang  to  her  feet  with  the  bound  of 
the  trained  dancer,  ran  along  the  gallery  and  down 
the  staircase,  the  gem  rings  on  her  bare  toes  twinkl- 
ing. For  several  minutes  she  spoke  with  him,  lean- 
ing on  the  marble  lamp-pedestal  at  the  stair  foot ; 
then  turned  and  scurried  back.  She  sank  down 
again,  panting,  by  the  balustrade. 

"He's  told  me  all  about  it.  .  .  .  The  Governor 
has  sent  a  Galilasan  miracle-man  to  Herod — a  dis- 
turber, who  speaks  against  the  Emperor.  He's 
before  Herod  in  the  hall  of  the  banquet  now.  .  .  . 
This  crowd  are  the  people  who  have  accused  him 
to  the  Governor.  .  .  .  Leander  says  that  Herod 
told  him  to  work  a  miracle,  but  he  just  stood  with 
his  eyes  on  the  ground  as  though  he  hadn't  heard 
a  word.  .  .  .  Herod's  angry,  Leander  says,  and 
will  send  him  back  to  the  Governor." 

"Oh — a  miracle!''  said  Amytis.  "I  should  just 
love  to  see  one !  If  he's  a  man  who  works  magic 
why  doesn't  he  make  himself  invisible  and  escape?" 

"Pooh !"  said  Helen.  "Conjurers  never  help  them- 
selves. If  they  could  they'd  go  on  horseback  in- 
stead of  plodding  along  in  the  dust.  They'd  all  be 
kings  instead  of  stinking  beggars.  .  .  .  What  a 
baby  you  are !" 


174  REVELATION 

Semla,    sitting   back    upon    her    heels,    yawned, 
•covering  her  mouth  with  a  soft  hand. 

"Leander  says  this  miracle-man  is  quite  well 
known  in  the  city,"  she  said.  "His  name  is  Jesus, 
and  he  comes  from  a  place  called  Nazareth.'' 

Iris  shrugged  an  impatient  shoulder,  turning 
away. 

"I'm  not  going  to  stand  here  and  watch  this 
stupid  rabble !  If  your  miracle-man  would  come 
into  the  court  and  show  us  better  tricks  than  the 
new  Egyptian  conjurer  who  turns  a  rod  into  a 
snake  and  lifts  live  chickens  from  an  empty  bowl 
it  might  be  worth  waiting  for.  ...  If  I  were  in 
Herod's  place  I'd  have  him  flogged  ...  I  can't 
endure  beggars,  anyhow — they  ought  all  to  be  cru- 
cified." 

She  turned  her  back  on  the  other  three,  crossed 
to  the  curtains,  and  disappeared. 

"What's  the  matter  with  her?"  inquired  Helen. 
"Is  it  indigestion,  or  is  Valerius  cooling?  He's  a 
dog!  .  .  .  He  was  infatuated  with  that  little 
Astarte  who  ran  away  the  night  after  she  was 
brought  here — the  brat  who  slapped  his  face.  .  .  . 
Do  you  know  what's  the  trouble  with  Iris.  Semla?" 
Semla  shook  her  head,  agitating  the  tassels  of 
strung  gold  beads  that  depended  from  her  ears. 

Beyond  the  curtains,  Iris  —  her  transparent 
drapery  through  which  her  shell-pink  body 
glimmered  trailing  behind  her — traversed  the  long 
chamber.  At  the  carpet-square  she  paused.  A 
sallow  woman,  with  her  lustreless  black  hair  hang- 
ing from  her  head  in  a  multiplicity  of  narrow  plaits 
after  the  Egyptian  fashion,  squatted  on  her 
haunches  at  the  edge  of  the  carpet. 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  175 

"Seket,"  said  Iris,  "there  is  nothing  to  see  out 
there — nothing-  at  all.  You  had  better  massage  me 
now — before  the  others  come  in  and  start  calling 
for  you." 

Unfastening  the  brooches  on  her  shoulders  she 
gave  a  shrug  and  her  drapery  slipped  to  her  feet. 
She  stepped  from  it,  dropped  to  her  knees  upon 
the  carpet,  and  then  extended  herself,  settling  her 
head  on  a  cushion.  The  carpet  was  of  a  peacock- 
blue.  The  limbs  of  Iris  were  tinted  like  an  ocean 
shell,  and  a  noticeable  rose  perfume  emanated  from 
her.  The  hands  of  the  sallow  woman  began  to 
knead  her  relaxed  body — deftly,  tirelessly. 

"I  feel  sleepy  this  morning,"  said  Iris  presently, 
"and  my  head  aches  a  little,  and  my  face  glows  as 
though  I  were  sitting  over  a  brazier." 

"Your  body  burns  under  my  hands,"  said  the 
woman  softly.     "It  is  perhaps  a  little  fever." 

"It's  nothing.  I  felt  like  this  a  week  ago,  and 
once  before  that.  .  .  .  How  frightful  to  be  born 
ugly,  Seket !  Ugly  people  ought  to  poison  them- 
selves. Slaves  who  wash  pavements,  and  women 
waddling  along  with  children  on  their  hips,  and 
the  people  one  sees  in  the  streets  seem  like  stupid 
animals — like  plough-oxen.  Fancy  having  to  eat 
boiled  locusts  and  raw  onions !  Fancy  living  with- 
out perfume,  and  sweet  oil,  and  eye-paint !  If  I 
couldn't  drink  wine  and  keep  myself  perfect  I'd 
open  my  veins." 

"The  people  in  the  streets  have  to  live,"  said 
Seket  in  her  tired,  crooning  voice.  "It  is  harder  to 
die  than  to  go  on  living,  even  though  there  is  noth- 
ing to  hope  for.    The  people  in  the  streets  are  very 


176  REVELATION 

many,  the  people  who  live  in  houses  of  marble  are 
very  few." 

"Well,  /  do,  anyway — that's  all  that  matters.  I 
don't  care  a  rotten  fig  how  those  others,  the  stupid 
animals,  live.  ...  I  shan't  be  old  for  years  yet, 
Seket.  When  one  is  perfect  one's  as  good  as  any  of 
the  gods — they  never  had  anything  better  than  love, 
and  wine  with  honey  and  spices  in  it.  .  .  .  Of 
course,  there  aren't  any  gods.  I  don't  believe  in 
anything  but  the  Evil  Eye." 

She  raised  her  two  arms  and  stretched  her  body, 
drawing  up  one  knee.  Her  pale  golden  hair  aureoled 
her  flushed  face.  Her  breast  heaved  like  the  low, 
rose-foam  swells  of  a  summer  sea. 

"What  is  this  mark?"  inquired  the  colourless 
voice  of  Seket,  softly  pitched ;  and  a  dry  finger-tip 
touched  the  Greek  girl's  side. 

Iris  lowered  her  arms. 

"You  mean  that  round  spot,  not  quite  as  big  as 
a  silver  coin,  and  the  colour  of  copper?  I  don't 
know  what  it  is.  It  comes  and  goes.  Each  time  it 
stays  for  a  little  while  and  then  fades.  .  .  .  See ! 
there's  another  like  it,  but  smaller,  on  the  back  of 
this  hand.    Do  you  know  why  they  come?" 

The  hand  of  the  sallow  woman  skilled  in  mas- 
sage was  drawn  back. 

"You  say  they  come  and  go?''  she  asked,  and  now 
her  voice  had  a  curious  hushed  inflection. 

"Yes.  And  when  they  come  my  head  aches,  as 
it  does  to-day,  and  I  feel  hot.  .  .  .  Do  you  know 
what  it  is?" 

"I  have  seen  such  marks  three  times.  They  can- 
not be  mistaken  once  they  have  been  seen.  ...  It 
is  the  beginning  of  leprosy." 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  177 

"What !" 

Iris  sat  upright  as  convulsively  as  though  she 
had  been  touched  by  a  white-hot  iron. 

"Seket !     It  cannot  be  that — it  cannot !" 

"Once  it  has  been  seen  it  can  never  be  mistaken. 
...  It  set  its  mark  upon  my  daughter,  and  in 
four  years  she  died." 

The  sallow  woman,  squatting  on  her  haunches, 
spoke  monotonously. 

The  eyes  of  the  Greek  girl  were  vacant.  They 
might  have  been  flakes  of  opaque  turquoise.  She 
sat  as  motionless  as  a  woman-shaped  stone.  But 
her  brain  was  busy.  .  .  .  Leprosy.  Pictures  grew 
before  her,  swift  as  the  flicker  of  an  eyelid — a  com- 
posite of  all  the  innumerable  lepers  she  had 
glimpsed.  Presently  round,  fleshy  lumps  would 
appear  upon  her  body,  changing  from  pink  to 
brown.  In  a  little  while  they  would  ulcerate,  be- 
coming running  sores.  The  skin  of  her  brow  would 
thicken,  corrugating  until  it  resembled  the  wrinkled 
brow  of  a  lion.  Her  hair  would  whiten,  and  her 
head  become  bald  in  patches.  Her  voice  would 
alter,  growing  husky,  as  the  creeping  disease  ate 
into  her  throat.  The  toes  would  drop  from  her 
feet,  the  fingers  from  her  hands.  She  would  shrivel, 
and  weaken,  and  rot ;  and  it  would  be  as  though  a 
corpse  laid  in  a  sepulchre  were  conscious  of  the 
progress  of  its  disintegration  and  nameless  loathe- 
someness.  .   .   . 

"Oh— I  cannot!     Seket!     I  won't  endure  it!" 

She  had  caught  her  hands  to  her  face.  Her  body, 
crouched  together  on  the  silk-tufted  carpet, 
writhed  as  though  it  were  impaled  upon  a  spear. 

"What  can  I  do,  Seket?" 


178  REVELATION 

"There  is  no  remedy  ..."  said  the  colourless 
voice.     The  Egyptian  squatted  impassive. 

Iris  pressed  the  fingers  of  one  hand  between  her 
lips,  gnawing,  unconsciously,  at  the  polished, 
almond-shaped  nails.  .  .  .  She  would  be  put  forth 
from  the  house  of  Herod.  Love,  and  wine,  and 
delirious  excitement  were  as  finally  at  an  end  as 
though  the  nothingness  of  death  had  come  sud- 
denly to  her.  Henceforward  she  would  walk  alone, 
eating  the  scraps  of  shrinking  charity.  And  the 
body  that  had  been  her  arrogant  joy — her  needfully 
worshipped  deity — would  become  her  torment,  her 
shame,  her  death-in-life.  .  .  .  She  touched  the 
bottom  of  the  bottomless  pit  of  human  despair, 
and  there  was  no  light — no  light  anywhere.  The 
brief,  flaring  lamps  that  illuminate,  unstably,  the 
last  of  the  senses  had  been  extinguished;  the  con- 
sciousness that  had  lived  in  their  radiance  faced  a 
horror  of  great  darkness  leading  downward  by 
many  steps  of  pain  to  the  dust  of  the  mindless  dead. 
Sense-pleasure  had  been  cleft  from  her,  and  there 
was  nothing  else.  .   .    . 

The  long  chamber  lightened  momentarily  as  the 
curtains  were  parted,  and  Helen,  Semla,  and 
Amytis — the  two  last  with  their  arms  about  each 
other — entered.    Helen  spoke  first. 

"You  didn't  miss  much,"  she  said.  "They  brought 
out  the  miracle-man  and  made  a  mock  of  him — 
that  was  all.  Now  they've  taken  him  back  to  the 
Governor." 

"Yes,"  said  Semla,  placid  as  a  plump  dove. 

The  beautiful  black-fringed  eyes  of  Amytis, 
darkly  blue,  were  distressed. 

"I  didn't  like  it,"  she  said.     "They  were  cruel,  I 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  179 

thought.  I  am  sure  the  miracle-man  has  clone  noth- 
ing. ...     I  hope  they  let  him  go." 

Her  lips  quivered  as  though  she  were  about  to 
weep. 

Iris  crouched  upon  the  carpet  gnawing  her  nails. 
Her  cheeks  seemed  to  have  sunken  as  though  she 
were  a  victim  of  famine.  Her  eyes  appeared  to  be 
without  sight. 

II 

"Figs — Jerusalem  figs — worth  their  weight  in 
gold!" 

"Syrup  of  grapes !" 

"Fresh  fish!" 

"Fine  Egyptian  lentils !" 

Up  and  down  the  winding  bazaar  street  trade- 
hungry  vendors  caught  passers-by  by  the  sleeve, 
gesticulated,  chanted,  or  yelped  their  wares  with 
lungs  of  leather.  There  were  stacks  of  small 
wicker  cages  containing  turtle-doves  destined  for 
the  sacrificial  fire  of  the  Temple  altar,  rows  of  pot- 
tery ware,  cakes  of  dried  figs  and  raisins  laid  out 
on  fig-leaves,  oil  of  Indian  spikenard  in  little  ala- 
baster jars,  pepper,  cinnamon,  and  cloves.  Men 
spoke  in  Hebrew,  in  Greek,  and  in  the  dialects  of 
the  desert  and  of  the  Mediterranean  coasts.  Young 
Galilseans,  up  for  the  Passover,  sauntered  hand  in 
hand,  frankly  sightseeing.  The  Jerusalem  stall- 
holders regarded  them  with  a  mingling  of  city- 
bred  contempt  and  wheedling  eagerness.  It  was 
cheerful,  strident,  and  as  familiar  to  David  as  his 
own  right  hand.  At  five  years  of  age  he  had  looked 
forward  to  the  Passover  figs ;  at  ten  to  the  coming 


180  REVELATION 

of  the  pilgrims  from  Alexandria,  Babylon,  Tyre, 
and  Tarsus;  at  fifteen  to  the  underlying  signifi- 
cance of  the  feast. 

The  bazaar  street  followed  a  valley  that  cleft  the 
hill  city.  David  walked  in  the  centre  of  the  way. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  jostled  by  innumer- 
able dreamers  while  he  alone  was  awake  and  en- 
grossed with  reality.  Five  days  had  elapsed  since 
he  had  joined  himself  to  the  Galilaean  prophet.  He 
had  seen  paralytics  rise  from  their  mattresses,  and 
the  eyes  of  the  blind  unclose,  blinking  like  the  just- 
opened  eyes  of  puppies  at  the  unimagined  light. 
There  had  been  acclamation,  and  the  pressure  of 
wonder-hungry  crowds.  He  had  heard  the  priests 
and  Rabbis  denounced  as  hypocrites  in  the  Temple 
courts,  while  they  gnawed  their  beards  or  broke 
into  bitter  argument,  and  voluble  abuse.  His  faith 
in  the  Galilaean  was  passionate  and  unquestioning. 
He  believed — and  this  belief  made  his  life  possible, 
supplying  it  with  a  meaning  and  a  purpose.  Hut 
the  figure  of  Astarte  stood  always  at  the  back  of 
his  consciousness  like  someone  standing  at  the 
shadowed  end  of  a  room,  and  he  knew  that  if  he 
should  revisit  the  house-court  of  the  acacia-tree  he 
would  kill.  He  burned  for  the  moment  when  the 
Master  would  declare  himself  the  King-Messiah, 
and  the  power  of  Rome  be  overthrown  like  a 
brazen  colossus  riven  by  the  lightning  of  an  angel. 
Then  he  would  quench  all  memory  in  the  blood  of 
the  enemies  of  God!  Everything  had  narrowed  to 
this  enthusiasm  now.  But  a  breath  might  have 
tipped  the  balance,  for  if,  in  his  first  agony  of  loss, 
he  had  not  turned  blindly  to  the  Mount  of  Olives, 
he  would  have  sought  an  insensate  blood-revenge 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  181 

and  have  suffered  crucifixion  at  the  hands  of 
Roman  authorities  for  murder. 

The  chaffering  to  right  and  left  appealed  to  him 
like  the  babble  of  children.  The  Deliverer  was 
even  then  within  the  walls  of  their  city — the  dawn 
of  his  world-empire  was  about  to  break — yet  they 
haggled  over  fish,  and  cried  the  merits  of  grape- 
syrup. 

"Father !  look  at  those  raisin  cakes — I  want  one !" 

A  little  boy,  holding  to  the  skirt  of  a  bearded 
man's  garment,  pointed. 

"Stay  a  moment !  Examine  these  staffs  of 
pomegranate  wood — cheap  at  the  price !" 

"Do  you  call  those  fish  fresh?  Why,  where  I 
come  from  we  wouldn't  give  them  to  a  leper.  You 
Jerusalem  fishmongers  should  see  the  market  at 
Capernaum — you'd  learn  something." 

Someone  touched  David's  arm.  He  turned  and 
saw  Andrew,  the  brother  of  Simon. 

"They've  taken  the  Master — the  High-Priests 
have  taken  him.  ..." 

His  voice  was  lowered  and  husky.  His  bearing 
was  that  of  a  person  at  once  dazed  and  nervous. 

"What?     When?" 

David  spoke  sharply. 

"I — we  cannot  talk  here.  It's  dangerous.  .  .  . 
Come  this  way." 

He  moved  aside,  his  shoulders  rounded,  his  head 
thrust  forward  as  though  in  avoidance  of  an  ex- 
pected blow.  A  dingy,  coloured  twist  was  bound 
turbanwise  about  his  brows.  A  long  outer  coat  of 
cloth  of  camel's  hair  fell  to  his  ankles.  In  the  pro- 
found shadow  of  an  arch  he  spoke  again. 

"They  took  him  last  night.  .   .    .     After  we  had 


182  REVELATION 

eaten  together  according  to  the  Law  we  went  out 
with  him  to  an  olive  garden  beyond  the  Kidron. 
They  surrounded  him  there — men  of  the  Temple- 
Guard  and  Gentile  soldiers  from  the  garrison.  There 
were  Pharisees  with  them,  and  servants  of  the 
priests — I  saw  them.  They  bound  his  hands,  and 
look  him  away.  ...  It's  Judas's  doing,  lie 
thought  the  Master  would  proclaim  himself  live 
days  ago,  when  he  entered  the  city  with  the  pil- 
grims, and  that  he  himself  would  be  made  a  judge- 
over  Israel.  When  nothing  followed  he  became 
sullen.  He's  sold  the  Master  to  the  priests  I 
money  so  that  he  can  bus  new  garments  and  be 
somebody.  .  .  .  it's  terrible.  We're  all  scattered. 
...  As  they've  taken  the  Master  they'll  take  u- 
also  if  they  lind  us.     It  won't  be  safe  in  the  cil 

He  spoke  in  a  helpless  way.    His  eyes  were  the 
of  a  fugitive. 

David's  brows  were  contracted  so  that  a  deep 
cleft  stood  between  them. 

"The  Master — is  a  prisoner?  Did  he  resist — how 
did  he  go  with  them?" 

"He  made  no  resistance  at  all.    He  we  vard- 

them  and  told  them  who  he  was.  It  was  just  as 
though  he  had  expected  them.  ...  He  forbade  us 
to  defend  him,  and  then  the  soldiers  threatened  us, 
and  we  scattered.  ...  It  will  be  safer  outside  the 
city — they  may  stone  us." 

His  eyes  wavered. 

"But  don't  you  understand — don't  you  see?  This 
is  to  test  our  faith  in  him.  It  must  be  so!  He  has 
permitted  them  to  take  him  so  that  we  may  be 
proved!  This  is  the  threshold  of  the  new  kingdom 
— before  this  day  is  over  we  shall  all  see  the  Glory 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  183 

of  God!  Why  should  we  hide  and  scatter?  He 
will  break  his  bonds  as  though  they  were  flax,  and 
the  priests  and  Pharisees  will  be  blind  before  him 
as  the  people  were  blinded  by  the  countenance  of 
Moses!    This  is  the  final  test — cannot  you  see  it?" 

David's  face  was  alight — afire  as  it  had  been 
when  he  walked  by  the  she-ass  between  the  waving 
palm-branches.  He  took  hold  of  the  other  by  the 
shoulder. 

Andrew  regarded  him  doubtfully.  Then  his  eyes 
shifted  again.  He  seemed  to  ask  himself:  "Has 
anyone  overheard  us?" 

"I  don't  know.  ...  It  may  be  so.  .  .  .  But  the 
Pharisees  may  incite  the  people  to  stone  us.  I — I 
think  I  shall  go  towards  Bethany.  You  had  best 
leave  the  city.  .    .   .     Peace  be  with  you." 

He  muttered  this  last  automatically,  and  shuffling 
from  beneath  the  arch  mingled  with  the  foot-borne 
traffic.  He  was  a  moneyless  Galilsean  fisherman,  in- 
herently timid  of  the  violence  of  those  in  authority, 
and  pathetically  bewildered  by  the  self-surrender 
of  the  Prophet  whom  he  had  followed  for  three 
years  with  dog-like  faith. 

David's  flare  of  contempt  was  impatient  rather 
than  angry.  Let  the  blind-souled,  the  hare-hearted, 
slink  out  of  the  town !  His  eyes  were  open,  and  his 
faith  burned  like  a  flame.  He  would  go  up  im- 
mediately to  the  house  of  the  High-Priest.  This 
was  the  last — the  heart-searching  test.  And  then 
the  power  of  the  Promised  One  would  break  upon 
them  like  a  seventh  wave  of  glory,  and  angel- 
legions  mingle  with  the  young  men  of  Israel  to 
dissipate  for  ever  the  strength  of  godless  Rome. 

Exultation  seemed  to  add  a  cubit  to  his  spiritual 


184  REVELATION 

stature.  For  the  first  time  since  they  had  told  hirn 
of  her  death  the  half-conscious  thought  of  Astarte 
was  blotted  out.  As  he  stood  beneath  the  arch  a 
white  tunic  fell  in  straight  folds  to  his  knees.  Un- 
consciously he  squared  his  shoulders  like  a  young 
captain  bracing  himself  to  the  weight  of  war-har- 
ness. Beyond  the  arch  on  that  side  which  v. 
farthest  from  the  Bazaar,  lay  a  court  like  a  stone 
wall.  Two  men  entered  this  court  from  an  inner 
door.  They  were  bargaining.  One  threw  out  three 
fingers,  the  other  four.  Above  them  a  pair  of 
beams,  set  at  right  angles,  spanned  the  court.  The 
cross-shaped  shadow  of  these  beams  fell  upon  the 
vividly  arguing  men.  David  looked  at  them  with 
a  species  of  pity.  They  continued  to  bargain — 
vivacious,  competent,  voluble — ignoring  him  as 
completely  as  they  ignored  the  impalpable  shadow 
cast  on  them  by  the  crossed  beams. 

In  the  upper  town — the  Sacred  City — the  white 
palace  of  Herod  the  Great  was  now  the  residence 
of  the  Roman  Governor.  It  was  not  yet  mid-morn- 
ing as  David  came  opposite  to  the  square-arched 
outer  gate.  The  Roman  sentinel  on  duty  stood  as 
straight  as  his  spear,  staring  at  vacancy  with  the 
stony  indifference  of  perfect  discipline;  but  a  hanri- 
ful  of  gazers  had  clustered  in  a  knot  about  the  gate- 
way— boys,  scavengers,  nondescript  hangers-on. 
Beyond  the  gate  some  considerable  disturbance 
seethed  before  the  raised  pavement  from  which  the 
Governor  administered  public  justice. 

David  halted. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  speaking  to  a  boy  who 
wore  a  ragged  shirt. 

"I  don't  know,  sir,"  said  the  boy  promptly.     "The 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  185 

Governor's  judging  someone — perhaps  it's  a  murder- 
er. ..  .  I'm  going  to  wait  in  case  they  scourge 
him." 

David  glanced  casually  towards  the  crowd  in  the 
forecourt  of  the  palace.  .  .  .  Just  within  the  gate 
stood  the  handsome  lad,  John,  looking  to  the  place 
of  justice  with  a  fixity  that  was  somehow  akin  to 
the  rigidity  of  suffering  endured  with  locked  lips. 

David  regarded  John  for  some  moments.  The 
lad  did  not  stir  or  turn  his  face.  .  .  .  Then  David 
passed  under  the  gate. 

The  crowd  that  crammed  the  forecourt  was  dem- 
ocratic. There  were  Sadducees — members  of 
wealthy  ancient  families,  wearing  pure  robes  of  the 
finest  linen — who  denied  immortality  and  imposed 
the  death  sentence  for  trivial  offences;  Pharisees, 
whose  amulet-boxes  containing  extracts  from  the 
Law  were  twice  the  size  of  other  men's  and  worn 
openly  upon  their  foreheads  all  day ;  Levites,  with 
a  small  roll  of  the  Law  protruding  from  an  outer 
pocket  of  their  garment ;  priests  crowned  with  linen 
turbans  having  many-coloured  silk  prayer-shawls 
on  their  shoulders  intermixed  with  threads  of  gold 
or  silver;  body  servants  of  the  priests  and  Saddu- 
cees wearing  red  skull-caps  and  striped  raiment ; 
Temple  hangers-on — dove  sellers,  cattle  sellers — 
and  the  riff-raff  found  like  fetid  sediment  in  the 
bye-ways  of  every  city.  The  odour  of  garlic 
mingled  with  the  odour  of  spikenard,  applied  as  a 
body-perfume. 

David  shouldered  his  way  forward.  Fragments 
of  speech  came  to  him — the  raised  voices  of  the  ac- 
cusers on  the  steps  of  the  tribunal :  "He  permits 
the  people  to  worship  him.   ..."     "He  will  raise 


186  REVELATION 

a  rebellion.  ..."    "If  you  release  him,  you  are  I 
Caesar's  friend!"    The  crowd  -  I  back  and  forth 

as  men  jostled  each  other,  avid  to  Bee  and  hear. 
The  Pharisee,  pure  in  his  own  estimation  as  a 
thrice-washed  g  irment,  endured  fierce  i  ith 

a  cattle  dealer  who  ate  bread  and  lettu  ithout 

rinsing  his  hands  three  tim<  ired  tl 

scribed  purification  when  he  crack 
of  mob-emotion,  complex,  ; 
the  crowd  as  wind  sweeps  a  field  of  Kr;' 

A  stout   man   v.  1  ith 

iiiu-  k  'round  with  a  guttur 

nation  that  resembled  a  snarl,  and  David  ; 
i  he  foot  o!  four  marb 

White,  fluted  columns  with   .  in 

ordered   alignment.     Above   tl  an 

ivory  chair  with  an  i\ 
this   chair   the   < 

the   people   directly.     A  held   a  ur- 

faced  writing  tablet  on  his  knee,  tak  a  what 

was  said.    At  tin-  Governor's  ri^ht  hand  ■• 
High-Priest— the    only    man    who    might    enter    the 
Holy  of  Holies  in  thi  of  Isi 

at  his  left  hand,  J  of  Xa/.areth. 

David's  heart  glowed  like  a  handful  of  tire.     H 
aspiring  faith  beat  like  the  wings  of  a  cage  I 
that  will  presently  soar  to  the  zenith.    Thi 
sied  moment  had  almost  come — then  they  would  all 
see!     Oh.  the  blindness  of  them!     Levit<  tiers 

in  sacrificial   animals,  and  this  Gentile  in   immacu- 
late white  bordered  with  purple,  whost  imption 
of  authority  seemed  as   natural  to  him  a-  the   I 
nelian    signet-rin^r    on    his    manicured   hand.      Only 
he — David — had  open  eyes.     Already  he   tasted  the 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  187 

astonishment,  confusion,  glory,  and  bloodshed  of 
the  imminent  revelation. 

The  secretary  coughed  discreetly  behind  his  hand. 
The  Governor  cleared  his  throat.  He  was  a  square- 
set,  middle-aged  man,  going  grey  at  the  temples, 
with  the  yellowish  look  of  a  person  who  suffered 
from  his  liver,  and  a  rather  disagreeable  mouth. 

"I  have  examined  this  man  already" — he  made  a 
curt,  outward  gesture  with  his  left  hand — "and  1 
have  sent  him  to  Herod,  who  is  of  the  same  opinion 
as  myself  regarding  him.  He  is  harmless.  But 
since  you  inform  me  that  his  illusions  concerning 
himself  have  caused  a  disturbance,  I  will  have  him 
scourged  as  a  lesson  and  example,  and  then  release 
him." 

He  glanced  at  the  prisoner,  frowned  as  a  man 
does  sometimes  when  light  falls  across  his  eyes, 
and  again  cleared  his  throat. 

"However  .  .  .  as  it  is  the  festival,  and  I  purpose 
to  liberate  a  criminal  according  to  the  custom,  I 
can  release  this  man  immediately  without  punish- 
ment. ..." 

He  paused. 

The  High-Priest  flung  out  a  vehement  hand. 

"Not  this  man  !  Liberate  Barabbas  !  The  people 
want  Barabbas !" 

A  Pharisee  standing  a  couple  of  steps  lower — by 
trade  a  basket-maker,  by  reputation  a  saint — caught 
the  name,  and,  tossing  up  his  arms,  cried  at  the  top 
of  his  voice: 

"Barabbas !    Ask  for  the  release  of  Barabbas !" 

"Barabbas !"  shouted  several  voices  at  the  foot 
of  the  steps. 

David  had  heard  the  name  before — all  the  city 


188  REVELATION 

knew  it.  The  man  belonged  to  the  Zealots — the 
irreconcilable,  fanatic  patriots  who  regarded  the 
payment  of  taxes  and  tribute  to  Rome  a.-,  a  betrayal 
of  God.  There  had  been  an  anti-Gentile  riot  in  the 
lower  town,  and  he  had  killed  a  Roman  centurion. 

"Barabbas!"     A  hundred  voices  took  it  up. 

"Give  us  Barabbas!" 

"Barabbas!  Barabbas!"  shouted  the  crowd  as 
though  it  had  one  throat. 

The  Governor  puckered  his  forehead,  looking  an- 
noyed. After  about  a  minute  the  clamour  died 
down. 

"If  I  release  Barabbas" — his  educated  voice  with 
its  unmistakable  patrician  inflection  was  noticeably 
raised,  as  though  he  were  really  anxious  for  it  to 
carry  as  far  as  possible — "what  shall  be  done  with 
this  man?" 

There  was  a  pause — like  the  pause  before  a  sus- 
pended wave  breaks.  It  was  one  of  those  moments 
when  the  units  of  a  gathering  merge  spiritually  in 
a  unanimous  mob-consciousness  that  thinks  with 
a  single  brain. 

"Crucify  him!"     The   wave   broke   with   a   crash. 
The  two  words  leaped  simultaneously  from  the  lips 
of  the  High  Priest,  the  Pharisaical  and  saintly  1 
ket-maker,  the  Sadducees,  Levites,  good-for-noth- 
ings, and  Temple  hangers-on. 

The  Governor  raised  his  hand  for  silence. 

"I  have  told  you  already  that  the  man  is  harmless 
— I  have  examined  him  myself.  ...  I  will  scourge 
him  and  let  him  go." 

"No!     Crucify  him — crucify  him!     The  cros-  !" 

The  High  Priest  was  purple  in  the  face.  The 
features   of    the   goat-bearded    basket-maker    were 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  189 

distorted  like  a  furious  mask  worn  by  an  actor  in 
a  Greek  tragedy.  The  crowd — made  up  of  salaried 
priests  whose  venialities  had  been  exposed  to  the 
people  who  supported  them,  of  Rabbis  smarting 
from  the  open  charges  of  hypocrisy,  of  Temple 
hucksters  who  had  been  twice  bundled  out  of  the 
Court  of  the  Gentiles  bag  and  baggage,  of  slum- 
bred  off-scourings  ready  to  yelp  "Death!"  for  the 
mere  excitement  of  the  thing — swayed  a  yard 
nearer  to  the  foot  of  the  marble  steps.  Its  com- 
posite, unanimous  brain  was  blood-suffused.  Rage 
whether  its  slight  roots  be  self-interest,  damaged 
vanity,  diminished  profits,  or  the  excitement-lust 
of  the  degenerate — is  the  strongest  because  the 
simplest  mob-emotion,  intoxicating  as  strong  drink, 
is  a  delicious  abandonment  of  individual  conscious- 
ness. 

"Crucify  him!" 

Hands — some  ring-jewelled — some  bleached  by 
continual  ceremonial  washing,  some  natural  as  a 
monkey's — reached  towards  the  raised  platform. 
The  mob  rocked  like  the  mole-enclosed  waters  of 
a  bay  that  is  shaken  by  an  earthcmake ;  and  it  was 
augmented  from  moment  to  moment  as  stragglers, 
infected  by  the  spreading  excitement,  gathered 
upon  its  fringes,  giving  tongue  with  the  rest.  The 
whole  forecourt  from  the  steps  of  the  tribunal  to 
the  outer  gate,  seethed. 

The  Governor's  secretary  glanced  up  furtively 
from  beneath  his  light  eyebrows.  He  was  divided 
between  nervousness  and  the  habit  of  self-efface- 
ment. The  captain  of  the  Governor's  guard  came 
forward  a  few  steps,  saluted,  and  asked  some  ques- 
tion.   The  Governor  made  an  irritable,  inconclusive 


190  REVELATIO 

gesture.    Then  he  spoke  sharply  to  a  freedman,  giv- 
ing some  order. 

"Crucify  him !" 

The  hoarse,  contagious  shout  leapt  up  at  the 
steps  of  the  tribunal  like  the  leap  of  a  fanged  wave 
at  a  cliff.  Then  fifty  voices  barked  it  from  the  cen- 
tre of  the  crowd.  Then  scattered  yelps  rose  at 
the  .edges  and  a\  ere  taken  up  again  at  the  centre. 
The  ears  were  assailed  by  cries  like  intermittent 
missiles,  flung  from  various  directions,  and  increas- 
ing momentarily. 

At  the  foot  of  the  four  steps  David  stood  like  a 
rooted  statue  that  smiles  a  faint,  secret  smile  with 
calm  lips  while  the  futile  gusts  of  a  tempest  fret 
and  veer.  This  crowd  resembled  venomous  mad- 
men racing  in  delirium — threatening  the  sun  with 
weapons  that  existed  only  in  their  imagination.  . 
tablished  in  the  certainty  of  his  absolute  faith  his 
lifted  eyes  did  not  swerve  from  the  Prophet 
Nazareth — the  unproclaimed  Messiah  whose  gl 
might  break  forth  at  any  moment  like  the  day- 
spring  from  a  silver  cloud.  The  tall  figure,  sandal- 
shod,  and  wearing  the  plain  robe  of  white  woollen 
stuff,  made  no  sign.  .  .  .  He  might  have  been  a 
king  standing  quite  quietly  on  an  acropnli>  that 
commanded  a  view '  of  subject  lands,  coasts  and 
cities,  glitteringly  vistaed  until  they  vanished  in  an 
aureate  mist.  His  hands — which  in  David's  sight 
had  opened  the  eyes  of  the  blind,  caressed  tottering 
children,  and  restored  half-rotted  lepers — were 
bound  behind  him  with  a  cord.  .  .  .  As  the  shout 
that  demanded  crucifixion  broke  out  again  and 
again  the  shadow  of  a  smile  deepened  on  David's 
lips.    To  couple  the  name  of  the  God-ordained  Mes- 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  191 

siah  with  the  gibbet  of  ignominy,  the  symbol  of 
outlawed  crime,  was  surely  laughable — like  the 
monstrous  blasphemies  of  ignorantly  babbling 
children.  His  shining  eyes  never  wavered  from  the 
figure  in  which  his  faith  and  vision  were  incarnate. 

From  the  doorway  behind  the  Governor's  ivory 
chair  came  a  pretty  Syrian  slave-boy,  his  ears  dec- 
orated with  big  golden  rings.  He  carried  a  brass 
bowl  filled  with  water,  and  came  very  carefully, 
fear  of  spilling  it  investing  him  with  an  anxious 
gravity. 

Again  the  Governor  held  up  his  ringed  hand  for 
silence. 

The  dropping  fire  of  cries  tailed  off. 

Coming  right  up  to  him  the  slave-boy  went  down 
on  one  knee.  Half  turning,  the  Roman  dipped  his 
fingers  in  the  water,  rinsing  them  perfunctorily. 

"As  you  see,  my  hands  are  clean  before  you — I 
repudiate  all  responsibility  for  the  death  of  this 
man.  ...  In  my  judgment  he  is  innocent.  ...  If 
you  insist  on  his  condemnation  you  must  answer 
for  his  blood  yourselves.     Look  to  it." 

He  snapped  these  sentences  at  them  in  the  man- 
ner of  a  man  who  has  been  pestered  with  business 
before  he  has  broken  his  fast — for  it  was  not  yet 
nine  in  the  morning — and  forced  to  concede  a  point 
to  avoid  the  more  considerable  annoyance  of  a  riot. 
And  there  was  something  uneasy  about  the  pris- 
oner's personality.  The  man  was  certainly  innocent, 
and  as  harmless  as  any  crack-brained  enthusiast 
wandering  on  the  skirts  of  the  Judsean  desert  with 
his  head  full  of  nebulous  dreams  and  a  handful  of 
butter-boiled  locusts  in  his  stomach.  .  .  .  The 
whole  affair  had  been  nothing  but  worry  and  irri- 


192  REVELATION 

tation  from   start  to  finish.     But  a   riot  would  be 
even  worse.  .   .   . 

"His  blood  be  upon  us  and  upon  our  children  if 
he  is  condemned  unjustly!" 

The  High  Priest's  violent  answer  trod  almost  on 
the  heels  of  the  Governor's  utterance. 

"Yes!  His  blood  be  upon  us  and  upon  our  chil- 
dren!" 

It  was  a  howl  from  the  mob.  They  were  as 
blood-hungry  now  as  the  rabble  of  dogs  leaping  at  a 
bleeding  trophy  of  the  hunt. 

The  Governor  spoke  to  the  captain  of  his  guard. 

"Let  him  be  beaten,"  he  said  shortly.  Men  con- 
demned to  crucifixion  were  always  scourged  first 
as  a  matter  of  course.  Then  he  turned  his  back  on 
the  crowd  and  went  into  the  palace  to  a  light  meal, 
for  his  liver  forbade  much  in  the  forenoon. 

Those  about  David  gave  ground  before  the  butt- 
ends  of  soldiers'  spears.  There  was  a  brief  confu- 
sion. Men  were  jabbering  excitedly,  elated,  avid, 
their  eyes  glittering.  Body-odours  and  the  smell 
of  sweat  and  effeminate  perfumes  were  almost  suf- 
focating in  the  crush.  The  raised  pavement  was 
vacant,  but  on  the  steps  the  High  Priest,  the  bas- 
ket-maker, and  two  or  three  others  had  gathered 
in  a  voluble  cluster.  The  whetted  mob,  restless  for 
further  satisfaction,  licked  its  chops.  Voices  were 
harsh  from  excitement  and  husky  from  shouting, 
and  each  man  paid  scarcely  any  attention  to  what 
his  neighbour  said. 

David,  his  brain  on  fire,  elbowed  his  way  blindly 
forward.  ...  A  levelled  spear  barred  him.  Beyond, 
through  an  archway,  lay  a  barrack  court.  An  in- 
termittent flicker  was  visible — the  lift  and  fall  of 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  193 

a  pair  of  many-thonged  scourges.  .  .  .  The  young 
man's  heart  seemed  to  contract  in  his  breast.  His 
spirit  winced  as  though  the  leather  strips  loaded 
with  pellets  of  lead  had  curled  about  his  own  body. 
"I  believe !"  he  cried  within  himself  as  a  witness  to 
a  proscribed  god  confesses  his  faith  from  the  midst 
of  torture-flames. 

David  tasted  blood.  He  had,  unconsciously, 
clenched  his  teeth  upon  his  lower  lip.  His  hands 
were  clenched  also — his  body  rigid.  .  .  .  He  could, 
with  a  single  violent  movement,  have  broken  past 
the  sentinel  whose  spear  had  halted  him,  felled  the 
nearest  scourger,  and  grappled  in  unchained  fury 
with  the  other.  The  urge  to  do  this  stiffened  him 
until  he  strained  against  inaction  like  a  leashed 
hunting  leopard.  But  to  yield  to  the  lunge  of  this 
instnct  would  destroy  the  very  foundation  of  his 
tormented  faith — satisfy  his  tense  muscles,  but  ex- 
tinguish the  light  of  his  soul  like  a  scattering  of 
fire-embers  to  the  four  winds  from  a  desecrated 
altar.  ...  If  the  man  lashed  by  his  wrists  to  the 
scourging-pillar  was  the  Messiah  of  God  he  could 
deliver  himself  from  his  enemies  at  will.  Rescue 
would  be  therefore  a  denial  of  belief.  And  if  he 
were  not But  David's  thought  reeled  back- 
ward from  this  gulf.  "I  believe,  I  believe "  re- 
peated the  dry  lips  of  his  mind. 

Sparrows  twittered  overhead.  Beyond  a  low  wall 
crowned  with  a  marble  balustrade  were  the  laurels, 
cypresses,  and  tree-oleanders  of  the  Governor's 
gardens.  Snow-white  classic  statues  gleamed,  and 
on  the  steps  of  a  summer  house  built  like  a  Greek 
temple  a  slave-girl,  agile  as  a  fawn,  played  at  ball 


194  REVELATION 

with  a  child,  and  their  mingled  laughter  came 
sweetly  across  the  air. 

"Back  there  !    Back  !" 

The  soldiers  of  the  guard  were  using  their  spear- 
butts  again — crowding  the  mob  away  from  the 
steps  and  forming  a  double  cordon  before  the  tri- 
bunal. David  gave  ground  with  the  rest,  was  swept 
backward,  caught  in  an  eddy  of  the  crowd,  and 
wedged  in  a  crush  of  bodies.  .   .   . 

A  long,  empty  interval  supervened.  The  faint, 
silver  laughter  of  the  young  slave-girl  was  silenced. 
The  restless  crowd  muttered  like  the  presage  of 
thunder  on  a  heavy  night.  Tremors  of  vague  move- 
ment shook  it. 

Now  there  was  a  stir  about  the  tribunal.  Fig- 
ures ascended  the  steps — soldiers.  David  could  see 
their  steel  helmets  and  shoulder-pieces  above  the 
heads  of  the  crowds.  .  .  .  There  was  the  Governor 
again,  coming  forward  to  the  edge  of  the  raised 
pavement.  The  knot  of  soldiers  parted,  opening 
out.  A  step  below  the  Governor  a  man  stood.  A 
torn  cloak  of  military  scarlet  covered  him.  His 
brows  were  encircled  by  a  fillet  of  thorny  twigs. 
Large  drops  of  blood  like  globular  rubies  jewelled 
his  temples.  The  guard-room  had  had  its  joke  at 
the  expense  of  the  Jewish  miracle-man  who  \va- 
accused  of  treason  against  Caesar — the  ragged 
cloak  and  the  thorn  fillet  were  a  rough-and-ready 
parody  of  the  Imperial  purple  and  the  laurel  wreath. 

David's  face  strained  upward.  His  lips,  on  which 
the  salt  taste  of  blood  smarted,  formed  the  words 
"I  believe.  ..."  Now — now  surely  the  transfig- 
uration, the  power  and  glory,  would  blaze  out  be- 
fore them  all  like  the  pillar  of  fire.  0,  God !  now.  .  .  . 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  195 

Indicating  the  scourged  man  with  a  gesture,  the 
Governor  said  something  which  was  inaudible  save 
to  those  nearest  the  foot  of  the  four  steps. 

With  a  unanimous  impulse  the  mob  surged  for- 
ward against  the  restraining  cordon  of  the  Roman 
guard. 

"Crucify  him!" 

They  had  seen  blood.  It  was  the  howl  of  the  pack 
closing  in  on  the  quarry,  crazy  to  rend  him  to  red 
tatters.  If  any  unit  of  the  crowd — dove-seller, 
good-for-nothing,  or  Levite's  servant — had  been 
led  aside  and  questioned  temperately  he  could  no 
more  have  offered  a  rational  basis  for  his  rage  than 
the  wild  dog  yelding  in  concert  with  his  pack- 
brothers,  his  jaws  aslaver  for  destruction.  It  was 
instinctive,  simple,  joyfully  savage. 

"Back — back,  all  of  you !  Out  of  here !  Clear 
the  court !" 

Again  the  spear-butts  were  in  use.  The  crowd 
jostled,  gave  ground,  yielded.  .   .   . 

"He'll  have  to  be  crucified  at  once.  It's  the  Great 
Sabbath  to-morrow.  ...  I  must  get  home — I  have 
relatives  from  Emmaus  stopping  with  me  for  the 
festival." 

"He's  a  Galilsean — they're  all  rogues.  There's 
nothing  to  choose  between  them  and  the  Samari- 
tans.    I've  always  said  so." 

"He  has  a  devil.  That's  what  Rabbi  Jonas  said 
in  the  porch  of  the  synagogue  last  Sabbath." 

"The  man's  a  frand — he  mixes  with  all  the  vaga- 
bonds of  the  town." 

"What's  he  done,  Rufus?  I  yelled  with  the  rest, 
but  I  don't  know." 


196  REVELATION 

Fragments  of  shredded  speech  eddied  about 
David  like  straws  carried  on  a  current.  He  saw 
the  outer  gateway — a  deep  arch  above  him.  Then 
the  unclouded  sky  of  morning  blue.  .   .   . 


Ill 


His  porter's  basket,  empty,  was  balanced  upon  Cy- 
mon's  shoulder  as  he  took  his  way  leisurely  down 
the  sunken  centre  of  the  street.  In  his  closed  left 
hand  were  a  few  copper  coins  which  he  rattled  ab- 
sently. They  were  the  payment  for  the  load  of 
wine  and  olive-oil  he  had  just  delivered  at  a  well- 
to-do  house.  As  he  rattled  them  the  thought  of  the 
bread,  dates,  salt  and  young  onions  that  they  would 
purchase  dwelt  semi-consciously  in  his  mind.  .  .  . 
A  fugitive  smile  touched  his  lips.  When  there  are 
two  to  be  fed  the  provider  who  is  freed  of  anxiety 
concerning  the  day's  food  experiences  an  incom- 
municable satisfaction. 

The  sunshine  was  milk-warm,  but  with  a  crisp 
edge  of  freshness  in  it  as  though  a  flake  of  snow 
had  melted  in  the  bland  milk.  The  doorways  on 
either  side  were  wreathed  with  lilies,  marigolds, 
and  red  anemones,  and  framed  in  myrtle  and  wil- 
low twigs.  From  the  crumbling  roof-parapets  tas- 
selled  carpets  hung  down.  Girls  of  thirteen  or  four- 
teen, whose  heads  and  shoulders  were  veiled  in  lily- 
white  drapings,  flashed  pretty  glances  at  smooth- 
faced boys  of  sixteen  who  strolled  hand  in  hand. 
Then  they  pressed  close  to  each  other  as  though 
terrified,  their  sweetly  salient  figures  shaken  by 
mute  giggling.    All  wore  their  best  clothes.   Worn- 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  197 

en's  silver  anklets  chinked.  There  was  a  perceptible 
smell  of  flowers.  One  could  almost  hear  the  pulse 
of  life  beating,  and  it  was  like  the  pulse  in  the 
throat  of  a  young  girl  who  passes  singing  where 
pipes  twitter,  and  sheep  bleat  to  sucking  lambs  who 
prance  and  jump,  and  the  sap  stirs  under  the  bark. 

Cymon  was  eighteen.  For  nearly  a  year  and  a 
half — ever  since  the  night  when  he  had  tasted  ideal 
ecstacy  at  the  lips  of  a  pretty  temple  girl — he  had 
luxuriated  in  bitter  and  violent  cynicism.  It  had 
helped  him  to  fight — nourishing  him  with  a  species 
of  philosophy  when  bread  was  unobtainable.  But 
upon  this  morning  the  spring  seemed  to  draw  the 
tips  of  her  fingers  lightly  across  the  cheek,  like  a 
caressing  woman ;  and  the  blood  thrilled  delicately 
in  his  finger-tips.  He  was  aware  that  he  felt  pleased 
to  be  alive.  His  mere  self-consciousness  was, 
somehow,  a  vague  source  of  pleasure.  The  half- 
shrouded  girls  with  lowered  heads  who  continually 
passed  him  did  not  move  him  to  grit  the  teeth  of  his 
spirit — he  allowed  his  eyes  to  dwell  on  them  cas- 
ually. .  .  .  Certainly  the  town  was  cheerful  at  pil- 
grimage times.  The  weather  was  glorious,  too. 
.  .  .  He  rattled  the  jingling  copper  coins  in  his  left 
hand  to  the  lilt  of  an  odd  little  tune  running  in  his 
head. 

Upon  many  of  the  flat  roofs  of  the  city  shelters 
of  boughs  had  been  erected  to  house  the  overflow 
of  the  pilgrims.  Cymon  had  put  together  a  similar 
shelter  on  the  roof  above  the  potter's  yard.  Be- 
neath it  Rama  slept,  or  sat  cross-legged  with 
drooping  shoulders,  her  slim  hands  in  her  lap.  She 
seemed  utterly  bewildered  still,  and  her  eyes  were 
filled  with  a  sort  of  pained  inquiry.    Cymon  she  ap- 


198  REVELATION 

peared  to  take  for  granted  with  a  trust  that  was 
clear  as  crystal.  He  was  David's  friend.  .  .  .  That 
morning  she  had  smiled  at  him — very  faintly — as 
they  ate  dates  in  the  ashen  half-light  before  the 
dawn.  He  had  undertaken  the  responsibility  of  her 
in  a  mood  of  tragi-comic  despair  and  exaspera; 
pity.     Now  he  liked  it. 

He   rattled  his   earnings   with   increasing  cheer- 
fulness  as  he   followed   the   zigzag  of   the   street. 
The  bread  he  purchased  must,  of  course,  be  unleav- 
ened.    He  knew  that  the  people  hereabouts  had  an 
ingrained  aversion  to  leavened  bread  at  this  time 
of  the  year.  .    .   .  "Gods!  I  feel  like  the  father  of  a 
family  !"  he  said  to  himself.    His  lips  twisted  whim- 
sically;  then  he  reddened  at  the  cheekbones;  then 
scowled   at  a  passing  man   whose  cast   of  counte- 
nance offended  him.     And  all   the   time   his  blood 
purred    subtly    with    a    growing    self-pleasure    and 
self-pride  as  he  passed  with  an  easy  and  mannish 
bearing — at  once  tolerant  and  cynical — between  the 
enwreathed    doorways    that    yielded    the    balsamic 
smell  of  fresh  leaves  and  the  odour  of  lilies. 

Clit-clat-clit — the  shod  hoofs  of  a  horse  picking 
his  way  down  the  trough  of  the  street.  A  Roman 
centurion  sat  astride  of  him. 

Cymon's  nostrils  dilated.  He  glared — as  much 
from  force  of  habit  as  from  any  other  reason — 
then  sprang  to  the  raised  footway,  standing  at  the 
edge  of  it. 

The  centurion's  steel  headpiece  was  crested  with 
red  bristles.  He  came  easily  along  on  his  bay  stal- 
lion. A  dozen  soldiers  followed  him,  two  bv  two, 
and  a  couple  of  fellows  with  hammers  thrusts 
their  belts  and  coils  of  rope  over  their  shoulders. 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  199 

"Oh — of  course.  It's  the  Passover  executions," 
said  the  thought  in  Cymon's  brain. 

The  Government  regularly  crucified  some  con- 
demned criminals  during  the  holiday  week  as  a 
wholesome  warning  to  the  city  and  the  pilgrims. 

Most  of  those  on  the  footways  paused.  The 
shadow  of  death  falling  across  the  sunshine  of  life 
is  wonderfully  stimulating  as  long  as  it  remains 
impersonal.  Women  looked  over  the  parapets 
from  which  the  scarlet-tasselled  carpets  hung 
down. 

Now  came  two  staggering  men  with  cross-pieces 
of  timber  lashed  to  their  shoulders — half  led,  half 
dragged  by  the  soldiers  who  hauled  them  by  cords 
fastened  to  their  belts.  They  were  vilely  filthy 
from  months  spent  in  a  reeking  prison,  and  reeling 
from  the  blood  lost  under  the  scourges.  Foam 
showed  at  their  lips,  and  their  bloodshot  eyes  were 
like  the  crazed,  glazing  eyes  of  a  crippled  ox. 

"They're  thieves  and  murderers — the  swine !" 
said  someone,  speaking  behind  Cymon.  "Headed  a 
gang  and  robbed  a  caravan  on  the  Damascus  road. 
Their  kind's  only  fit  for  the  cross." 

The  two  men  staggered  past — lurching,  uttering 
sounds  that  were  midway  between  grunts  and 
groans. 

"Poor  devils!"  said  Cymon's  thought. 

Another  figure  brought  up  the  rear.  This  man 
wore  a  longish,  mire-stained,  white  woollen  gar- 
ment, and  his  head  was  encircled  by  a  fillet  of 
thorns. 

"What's  this  one  done?" 

"I  don't  know — I'm  a  stranger  here.    .    .    .   But 


200  REVELATION 

they  only  crucify  murderers  and  such-like,  don't 
they?     He  must  be  a  criminal." 

"Oh,  of  course!  ..." 

Cymon  was  watching  the  last  of  the  three  crim- 
inals much  as  a  sensitive-natured  person  might 
watch  the  approach  of  a  pitifully  injured  animal. 
His  brows  had  contracted  as  though  he  himself 
were  actually  suffering  reflected  pain. 

Suddenly,  without  a  sound,  the  man  swayed, 
crumpled,  and  fell  forward. 

"Oh !"  said  a  woman's  voice — a  wincing  pity- 
sound. 

One  of  the  soldiers  in  charge  of  the  criminal 
struck  him  with  his  foot. 

"Get  up !    We  can't  wait  here  all  day !" 

Cymon  had  once  seen  a  charioteer  kick  a  chariot 
horse  that  had  come  down,  breaking  its  foreleg. 
He  had  struck  the  man — half  frantic  with  furious 
pity.  And  the  consciousness  had  been  knocked  clean 
out  of  him  for  his  pains.  .  .  .  His  soul  quivered  as 
it  had  done  upon  that  other  occasion,  and  then 
seemed  to  become  molten. 

As  though  he  were  acting  upon  a  prearranged 
signal  that  had  just  been  given,  he  leapt  from  the 
footway  and  lashed  out  at  the  soldier  with  his 
clenched  fist.  He  caught  him  fairly  on  the  mouth. 
It  was  so  entirely  unexpected  that  the  Roman  was 
knocked  clean  off  his  balance,  staggered  a  moment, 
and  went  over  backward  with  a  clutch  at  the  air. 

Cymon's  extraordinarily  brilliant  blue  eyes 
seemed  to  have  gone  black.  He  broke  into  a  tor- 
rent of  high-pitched  words. 

"You  cowards !  You  filthy  cowards  !  You  make 
me  sick !     You're  not  men — you're  paid  execution- 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  201 

ers  with  the  muscles  of  oxen  and  the  souls  of 
jackals." 

He  was  trembling  uncontrollably — swept  with 
fury  against  the  calloused  injustice  that  ruled  the 
world  and  trampled  uncountable  quivering  bodies 
beneath  its  bloody  golden  hoofs.  Stooping  very 
quickly  he  slipped  his  hands  under  the  armpits  of 
the  criminal  who  had  fallen,  and,  with  an  output  of 
effort  that  nearly  broke  his  back,  raised  him  until 
he  stood  again  upon  his  feet.  And  as  he  did  so  he 
was  caught  by  the  shoulder  and  wrenched  half 
round,  his  wrists  seized,  and  a  leather-hard  hand 
dashed,  palm-outward,  in  his  face. 

"Take  that,  you  whelp!  We'll  teach  you  to 
tackle  your  betters !  You'll  get  your  hide  cut  to 
ribbons  for  this !" 

He  was  in  the  grip  of  a  pair  of  soldiers  whose 
breasts  and  backs  were  plated  with  steel,  and  knew 
better  than  to  struggle,  standing  immobile.  The 
fellow  he  had  knocked  down  was  drawing  the  back 
of  his  hand  across  his  mouth,  which  was  bloody. 
He  spat  out  a  broken  tooth,  looking  black  murder 
at  Cymon. 

The  centurion,  who  had  come  up  the  street  again 
at  a  sharp  trot,  drew  rein. 

"Take  him  to  the  prison !"  he  said,  "and  bring 
this  man  up  with  the  others — they'll  be  half  a  mile 
ahead  of  him  at  this  rate.  They  must  be  on  the 
crosses  in  an  hour — all  three  of  them.  ..."  Cy- 
mon was  about  to  speak  violently — but  the  words 
dried  up  in  his  throat.  Behind  this  lank-jawed  of- 
ficer on  the  bay  stallion  were  inexhaustible  cohorts, 
fortresses,  military  roads,  numberless  cool  and  spa- 
cious marble  houses  where  Power — incarnated  in 


202  REVELATION 

smooth-shaven  men  of  a  square-headed,  unemo- 
tional type — read  and  discussed  elegant  literature, 
ordered  the  punishment  of  slaves,  poured  liba- 
tions to  the  gods  as  a  matter  of  good  form,  and  de- 
creed the  fate  of  men  and  nations  as  though  from 
the  summit  of  a  new  Olympus.  .  .  .  He  expe- 
rienced a  feeling  of  futility — the  sensation  of  a  per- 
son who  looks  up  at  the  hundred-foot  colonnades 
of  a  dynastic  palace  that  appear  as  stable  as  the 
eternal  mountains  and  equally  indifferent.  "Oh, 
what's  the  use?"  said  his  thought.  Mentally  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

His  wrists  were  bound — he  was  walking  between 
soldiers.  Willow  garlands  and  lily-wreaths  crowned 
every  doorway.  The  cheerful  hum  of  the  holiday 
city  was  as  steady,  as  murderous,  and  as  uncon- 
cerned as  the  drone  of  bees  in  a  bed  of  thyme.  His 
circumstances  had  turned  a  complete  somersault  in 
the  last  fifteen  minutes,  yet  it  made  not  a  jot  of 
difference  to  anyone  but  himself.  And  at  this  point, 
with  a  blank,  sickening  feeling,  he  remembered 
Rama.  .   .   . 

"Here's  your  kennel.  It  smells  sweet,  doesn't  it?" 

Descending  three  steps,  Cymon  turned. 

"I'm  the  master  of  my  own  soul,"  he  said,  and 
the  words  appealed  to  him  as  almost  overweighted 
with  lofty,  ice-cold  scorn.  "You  haven't  the  soul 
of  a  louse — you'll  live  and  die  in  prison,  though  you 
don't  know  it." 

There  was  a  bark  of  laughter.  A  heavy  door 
banged  shut,  and  he  heard  a  bolt  shot  home.  The 
stench  of  the  place  was  awful — he  felt  impelled  to 
hold  his  breath.  The  half-light  filtered  through 
two  gratings,  each  a  foot  square.    Upon  the  walls 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  203 

had  been  scratched  the  initials  of  names,  appeals  to 
gods,  and  obscene  sentences. 

It  seemed  to  Cymon  that  he  could  not  possibly 
endure  this  place  for  an  hour.  And  he  might  re- 
main here  for  days  before  they  scourged  him.  He 
folded  his  arms,  gnawing  at  his  underlip.  Rama 
would  wait  on  the  roof  above  the  potter's  yard. 
She  might  starve,  for  she  was  far  too  shy  and  mod- 
est to  beg.  .  .  .  All  in  a  moment  he  felt  frantic — 
rabid.  Gods,  indeed!  A  nice  sort  of  justice  there 
was  in  the  world !  If  there  were  gods  they  ought 
to  be  spat  upon  for  the  things  they  permitted.  .  .  . 
But  he  had  knocked  the  Roman  down — broken  his 
front  teeth,  too.  A  spurt  of  satisfaction,  like  the 
leap  of  a  little  flame,  warmed  him  transiently.  .  .  . 
The  copper  coins  he  had  earned  that  morning  lay 
somewhere  in  the  street  where  he  had  struck  the 
Roman.  He  must  break  his  way  out !  He  would 
lie  in  wait  for  the  soldier  who  brought  him  food, 
and  choke  him.  .  .  . 

IV 

Underfoot  was  the  new  grass  of  April,  ankle-high. 
There  were  white,  blue,  and  purple  violets,  and  the 
white  narcissus.  Myrtle  bushes  clustered,  and  a 
few  scattered  apple  and  almond  trees  were  span- 
gled with  blossoms.  It  was  a  garden,  broken  up  by 
stony  ledges  in  which  artificial  steps  had  been  cut. 
A  neglected  garden  lapsing  back  to  partial  wilder- 
ness, secluded,  inclining  to  dampness,  and  grateful 
as  a  draught  of  water  from  a  limpid  spring  be- 
neath a  rock. 

David  had   entered    it    as    a   hurt    animal    seeks 
shadow — instinctively.      Where    a    lichened    ledge 


204  REVELATION 

overhung,  a  grotto  had  been  hollowed  out — in- 
tended, evidently,  for  a  tomb,  but  unfinished.  Go- 
ing forward  into  this  shallow  cave,  David  sat  down 
upon  a  block  of  stone  and  dropped  his  head  between 
his  two  hands.  .  .  . 

Trails  of  ivy  hung  before  the  grotto.  The  smell 
of  it  was  musty  and  it  struck  cold. 

"O  God!  .   .   .  What  am  I  to  believe?" 

He  spoke  aloud.  There  was  no  answer — not  even 
the  chirrup  of  a  bird  or  the  whirr  of  an  insect. 

"Why  must  I  be  tested  like  this?  ...  If  they 
crucify  him  he  is  not  the  Messiah.  They  could  not 
crucify  the  Messiah!  .  .  .  Why  should  you  deceive 
me?" 

He  was  speaking  directly  to  God.  His  own  ques- 
tion shocked  him.  .   .   .  He  lowered  his  head  again. 

"But  they  haven't  crucified  him  yet,"  he  muttered 
with  dry  lips. 

A  wave  of  transcendent  faith  swept  through  him 
and  he  touched  the  heights  again.  He  would  be- 
lieve— in  the  face  of  heaven  and  earth  and  hell — 
and  the  very  height  and  depth  of  this  blind  belief 
should  secure  its  fulfilment.  He  got  up  and  passed 
out  of  the  grotto,  treading  the  grass  that  was  lush 
but  not  rank.  A  few  steps  away  he  paused.  .  .  . 
Behind  the  garden  lay  the  city;  before  it  ran  a 
camel-path  that  joined  the  Damascus  road.  Oppo- 
site the  city  and  skirted  by  this  road  rose  the  Hill 
of  the  Skull — the  place  of  executions.  More  than 
an  hour  had  elapsed  since  he  had  seen  the  Galilaean 
led  out  with  two  others  from  the  forecourt  of  the 
Governor's  palace,  loaded  with  the  timber  for  his 
cross.  By  this  time  they  must  certainly  have 
reached  the  hill. 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  205 

A  fevered  impatience  to  see,  to  know,  took  him. 
And  he  believed — yes,  he  believed.  .  .  .  He  set  his 
teeth  on  that  as  though  nothing  in  heaven  and  earth 
should  slacken  the  grip  of  his  clenched  faith. 

Along  the  camel-path  below  the  garden  came  a 
riding-camel  heralded  by  its  tinkling  neck-bells. 
The  rider  intoned  a  whining  minor  melody — in- 
terminable, infinitely  weary,  yet  conveying  a  sense 
of  indestructible  vitality,  the  plaint  of  life  that  end- 
lessly endures  and  hopes. 

When  the  camel  and  its  crooning  rider  had  passed 
on,  David  came  out  upon  the  camel-path.  The 
morning — which  was  approaching  noon — had  be- 
come curiously  windless.  Every  leaf  was  as  mo- 
tionless as  though  it  had  been  cast  in  metal.  There 
was  a  sensation  of  oppression,  like  that  which  pre- 
cedes thunder.  A  film  seemed  to  have  dulled  the 
sky,  and  the  light  was  diffused — there  was  neither 
clean-cut  shadow  nor  definite  brightness.  David 
was  walking  swiftly,  but  his  feet  were  weighted  as 
they  often  are  in  distressed  dreams.  As  he  walked 
he  took  particular  notice  of  the  small  lizards  still 
as  the  stones  on  which  they  sat — as  the  grass 
blades,  as  the  rigid  leaves — and  of  the  circular 
camel-prints  in  the  dust,  and  of  the  green  fruit  on  a 
wild  fig-tree. 

An  ascending  foot-track  branched  from  the 
camel-path.  He  heard  the  murmurous  sound  of  a 
number  of  mingling  voices.  Slate-coloured  rock 
cropped  out  and  the  herbage  fell  away.  He  lifted 
his  eyes. 

On  the  summit  of  the  hill,  bald  as  the  cranium  of 
a  skull,  and  whose  rocky  hollows  distantly  resem- 
bled a  skull's  eye-sockets  and  nostrils,  a  number  of 


206  REVELATION 

people  clustered.  Something  was  going  forward  at 
the  centre  of  this  crowd.  .  .  .  David  approached. 
His  pace  had  slackened  to  a  deliberate  walk.  He 
still  held  his  mind  to  a  strained  blankness  that 
ached.  As  he  came  he  counted  the  tawdry  figures 
pushing  and  shifting.     One,  two,  three,  four,  five, 

six,  seven,  eight,  nine,  ten 

There  was  a  sound  of  hammering.  In  the  central 
space  the  sections  of  three  crosses  were  being  fitted 
together. 

"It  feels  like  thunder,"  said  a  man  whose  head- 
cloth  was  filleted  with  camel's  hair,  and  whose  face 
had  the  worm-eaten  look  that  is  the  legacy  of  con- 
fluent smallpox. 

"So  it  does.  ...  I  must  be  getting  along.  There's 
more  to  see  in  the  town  than  out  here.  I've  trav- 
elled a  bit — I've  been  twice  to  Jericho,  but  there's 
no  place  like  Jerusalem  at  Passover." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  You  can  see  all  the  life 
you  want  in  Gischala  on  a  market  day — take  that 
from  me !" 

"He  was  a  carpenter,"  said  another  voice,  "a 
Nazareth  carpenter.  He  told  the  High  Priest  he 
was  the  Son  of  God.  A  second  cousin  of  a  friend 
of  mine  is  one  of  the  Priest's  servants — that's  how 
I  know.  It  happened  last  night  after  they  arrested 
him.  It's  awful  blasphemy — they  say  he's  got  a 
devil." 

"But  he's  cured  people — my  wife's  sister  knows 

a  woman  who " 

"That  makes  no  difference.  Men  with  devils  can 
do  anything.     Everyone  knows  that." 

"Phew !"  said  a   caravan  ruffian  whose  clothing 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  207 

smelt  like  a  camel  does,  "I'd  give  a  week's  wages 
for  a  gulp  of  air !" 

The  hammering  ceased. 

"Here— drink  this." 

A  soldier  held  a  jar  to  the  lips  of  one  of  the 
stripped  men.  It  was  filled  with  sour  wine  embit- 
tered with  stupefying  myrrh — a  mixture  prepared 
by  Jerusalem  women  to  deaden  the  pain  of  the  cru- 
cified. The  man  drank  ravenously.  So  did  the  next. 
But  the  Galilasan,  after  tasting  it,  averted  his  head 
and  would  not  drink. 

The  soldier  guffawed. 

At  a  word  from  the  dismounted  centurion  the 
condemned  men  were  laid  hold  of,  led  to  the  pros- 
trate crosses,  and  extended  upon  them.  .  .  .  Again 
came  the  dull,  knocking  sound  of  wooden  hammers 
striking  iron  nails.  The  Galilaean  moved  his  thorn- 
filleted  head  a  little  from  side  to  side.  His  eyes 
closed,  then  opened  again. 

"Father  .  .  .  forgive  them  .  .  .  they  know  not 
what  they  do." 

Now  the  three  laden  crosses  were  heaved  aloft. 
Sockets  had  been  dug  for  them.  They  trembled  an 
instant  on  the  brink  of  these — tottered — and  then 
jarred  downward  with  a  heavy  shock.  Shrieks 
broke  from  the  caravan  robbers,  and  then  a  babble 
of  filthy  words. 

Among  the  onlookers  someone  laughed — sud- 
denly, loudly,  and  entirely  without  mirth.  It  was  a 
bareheaded  young  man  dressed  like  a  Greek.  The 
tension  had  snapped.  As  the  centre  cross  of  the 
three  jarred  into  its  socket  faith  broke  like  a  water- 
bubble.  .  .  .  David  laughed  at  the  belief  that  had 
touched  his  life  as  with  a  finger  of  holy  fire,  at  the 


208  REVELATION 

white  summits  where  his  ideals  had  walked  with 
God-like  wonder  with  the  chariots  of  the  dawn,  at 
the  aspiration  that  had  lifted  him  to  unimaginable 
thresholds  of  jacinth  and  jasper. 

His  one  vivid  impulse  was  to  laugh  in  the  teeth 
of  God.  .  .  .  Suddenly  he  remembered  Astarte.  A 
wave  of  molten  feeling  flooded  through  him.  The 
Power  that  had  reft  his  love-mate  from  him,  giv- 
ing her  to  hideous  death,  had  wasted  the  holy  sanc- 
tuary of  the  ideals  by  which  he  lived,  and  sown  the 
site  of  it  with  salt,  but  he  was  still  a  man — he  also 
could  shed  blood,  and  break  lives  as  her  life  and  his 
own  had  been  broken.  He  turned  immediately, 
freed  himself  from  the  crowd,  and  went  down  the 
cityward  slope  of  the  hill. 

Traffic  drifted  on  the  Damascus  road.  The  am- 
bling mules  and  asses — brow-bound  with  blue  beads 
as  a  protection  against  the  Evil  Eye — drooped  their 
heads  as  though  the  increasing  heaviness  was  a 
more -tangible  burden  than  the  loads  that  were  bal- 
anced upon  them.  No  living  air  agitated  the 
banded  tassels  of  their  housings.  Those  who 
walked  by  them  turned  their  faces  briefly  towards 
the  Hill  of  the  Skull.  Some  struck  their  beasts  with 
sticks  as  though  to  hasten  them  forward  before 
the  heavens  were  shattered  by  a  storm. 

David  entered  the  city.  His  goal  was  the  house- 
court  where  his  mother  had  told  him  of  Astarte's 
death;  and  he  headed  for  it  undeviatingly.  He 
heeded  nothing  now — the  people,  the  streets,  the 
dominating  white  fortress-towers  that  resembled 
bluffs  of  marble  rock.  .  .  .  He  had  no  weapon,  but 
his  hands  were  very  strong.  And  he  would  not 
need  to  inquire  as  to  who  had  dragged  his  love- 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  209 

mate  out  to  the  stoning-ground,  for  as  soon  as  any- 
one of  those  who  had  stoned  her  met  him  eye  to 
eye  he  would  know  immediately  why  he — David — 
had  returned,  and  his  own  fear  would  be  his  be- 
trayer. Then  blood  should  atone  for  blood.  .  .  . 
He  felt  that  to  have  that  stain  on  his  bare  hands 
would  be  a  release,  a  salve  like  an  anointing  with 
oil  and  wine,  a  deliverance  from  the  hollow  and 
aching  void  that  had  been  his  soul. 

Now  he  was  in  the  crooked  street.  .  .  .  More 
slowly  he  approached  the  arch.  Above  each  of  the 
three  lower  doorways  that  opened  into  the  house- 
court  was  a  ragged  palm-branch — a  poor  echo  of 
the  festival.  The  double  door  at  the  head  of  the 
steps  was  closed.  David's  heart  winced  as  he  raised 
his  eyes  to  it.  .  .  .  It  seemed  to  him  that  a  person 
differing  entirely  from  himself  had  stood  on  the 
threshold  of  that  door  looking  straight  into  the 
gold  of  the  morning,  while  his  exultant  blood  sang 
like  the  immortal  pulses  of  a  god. 

Overhead  the  unmistakable  squalling  wail  of  a 
very  young  infant  sounded.  There  were  voices  also. 
David  stepped  back  a  pace,  remaining  unseen. 

Two  women  had  come  out  into  the  house-court. 

"And  as  I  was  saying,  Sara,  a  woman  needs  to 
have  four  pairs  of  hands  these  days.  What  with 
all  the  leavened-bread  crumbs  to  be  gathered  up 
and  burnt,  and  all  the  wooden  dishes  rubbed  with 
a  red-hot  stone,  and  all  the  used  clay  pots  broken 
and  thrown  out,  and  the  grain-mortar  filled  with 
hot  coals  to  cleanse  it,  the  Passover's  no  holiday 
for  me,  let  me  tell  you.  I  haven't  a  foot  to  stand 
on,  and  that's  the  truth !  And  then  the  five-days 
boy  upstairs — Heaven  bless  him !  and  Dinah  fit  for 


210  REVELATION 

nothing,  sick  or  lazy — I  don't  know  which.  .  .  . 
My  back  feels  as  though  it  were  broken  across 
from  stooping  after  all  those  crumbs  of  bread." 

"I  am  sorry.  ..."  (This  voice  had  a  dove-like 
quality — the  other  had  resembled  the  raucous 
clucking  of  a  hen.)  "But  it  is  better  to  be  weary 
from  work  than  to  be  laid  aside.  Three  weeks  ago, 
as  you  know,  I  could  not  even  lift  my  own  hand — I 
lay  on  my  bed  and  wept  to  see  others  doing  what 
I  could  not.  But  God  is  good.  .  .  .  The  prophet 
from  Galilee  restored  me — may  his  name  be  a 
blessing!" 

"That  was  on  the  morning  when  Naomi's  David 
told  his  mother  he  was  going  to  marry  the  Gentile 
dancing-  girl  who  died  and  was  brought  to  life 
again.  ..." 

The  busy,  clucking  voice  trailed  off — or  seemed 
to.  David,  standing  by  the  street  wall  a  pace  from 
the  archway,  heard  again  in  spirit  the  hoarse  ap- 
peals of  a  leper,  Rama's  one  word,  "Master";  and 
again  it  seemed  to  him  that  Astarte,  white  as  death 
and  golden  as  fire,  lay  at  his  feet  on  the  torn  mat- 
tress with  livid  lips  that  had  been  robbed  of  breath 
and  the  sky  above  him  was  that  of  a  clear  saffron 
morning.  .  .  .  Someone  paused  before  him,  and  he 
looked  at  this  man,  and  their  eyes  mingled.  Then 
the  man  stooped  .  .  .  and  Rama  uttered  a  little  cry 
of  pure  joy.  -.  .  . 

With  a  sharp,  incoherent  utterance,  he  drew  a 
hand,  palm  outward,  across  his  eyes.  His  braced 
shoulders  sagged.  Some  energy  had  been  suddenly 
and  definitely  withdrawn  from  him — the  energy 
urging  him  to  kill.  Every  tense  muscle  relaxed — as 
they  had  relaxed  that  night  on  the  Mount  of  Olives 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  211 

when  the  glimmering  figure  moved  towards  him 
down-hill  between  the  olive-trees.  That  figure  did 
not  seem  to  bear  any  relation  to  the  scourge-tat- 
tered body  of  a  mute  man  nailed  to  a  gibbet.  .  .  . 
No,  he  could  not  kill — the  flame  had  died  and  there 
remained  only  a  handful  of  ashes.  An  immeasur- 
able hopelessness  enveloped  him. 

He  stood  for  a  long  time  in  the  one  place.  Sev- 
eral people  passed  him.  He  was  quite  purposeless. 
The  inertia  of  despair  seemed  to  eat  inward  to  the 
very  heart  of  him  as  quicklime  eats  through  flesh 
and  bone.  The  impending  darkness  deepened — its 
suggestion  of  thunder  was  so  imminent  that  the 
rigid  air  seemed  to  be  listening  for  it  like  a  mo- 
tionless sentient  creature  in  a  wood  of  Fear. 
Through  the  lattice  of  a  hanging  window  the  light 
of  a  lamp,  kindled  in  an  upper  room,  trickled, 
smoky-yellow. 

"Lord,  spare  us  all !  How  dark  it's  got !  I'll  have 
to  light  the  lamps — just  as  if  I  hadn't  enough  to 
do.  ..." 

Hasty,  yet  dragging  sandalled  feet  struck  sound 
from  the  cobbles  of  the  house-court — clip-clap, 
clip-clap. 

The  physical  darkness  invaded  David's  conscious- 
ness— it  met  the  spiritual  darkness  that  was  already 
there,  and  the  two  became  one.  .  .  .  And  this  dual 
night  widened  outward  from  the  Hill  of  the  Skull. 
.  .  .  His  will  stirred.  It  was  as  though  one  be- 
trayed by  Fate  should  fling  wide  his  arms  to  all 
that  he  had  held  off  from  him  with  his  last  shred 
of  strength — an  embrace  namelessly  terrible  as 
the  union  of  manhood  with  the  destroying  sphynx, 
the  inhuman  ecstasy  of  self-surrender  to  the  forces 


212  REVELATION 

of  death.  .  .  .  Light  had  been  niched  from  him. 
Very  well !  The  darkness  should  possess  him  as 
sable  waters  lave  the  limbs  of  a  swimmer  in  a  mid- 
night sea.  He  experienced  a  species  of  exultation 
that  was  in  its  essence  more  terrible  than  despair. 
Where  there  is  no  hope  there  can  be  no  further 
suffering  of  any  kind.  The  lover  in  whose  breast 
her  brazen  claws  had  fastened  pressed  his  lips  with 
a  ferocity  transcending  that  of  passion  to  the 
mouth  of  the  sphynx.  .   .   . 

He  moved.  He  traversed  street  after  street.  The 
obscurity  was  that  of  a  premature  nightfall.  The 
lilies  above  the  doorways  showed  pallid  as  the  linen 
bands  that  enwind  the  dead.  Desertion  reigned 
everywhere,  for  everyone  expected  the  stall  of 
lightning  and  a  deluge  of  rain.  The  city  had  the 
appearance  of  a  town  that  has  been  decimated  by 
pestilence  and  stands  empty  under  the  still-lower- 
ing wrath  that  has  smitten  it. 

At  the  Damascus  Gate  the  Roman  sentinel, 
leaning  on  his  spear,  cocked  an  anxious  eye  up- 
ward. 

A  long,  hollow  wailing,  thrice  repeated,  drifted 
out  under  the  heaven  that  was  now  a  uniform  violet 
pall.  The  ram's-horn  trumpets  of  the  Temple  an- 
nounced that  the  slaughter  of  the  many  thousands 
of  unblemished  male  lambs  had  commenced. 

For  the  second  time  that  day  the  city  lay  behind 
David.  .  .  .  The  Hill  of  the  Skull  drew  him — he 
would  taste  and  handle  that  which  had  tortured  his 
soul  to  death. 

The  Damascus  road  was  as  lifeless  now  as  the 
ways  of  the  town.  A  bird  flew  low,  uttering  no 
cry.    As  David's  sandals  smote  the  dry  rock  of  the 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  213 

fleshless  hillslope  his  footsteps  seemed  to  be  the 
only  sound  between  heaven  and  earth.  .   .  . 

Against  the  three  crosses  the  blood-drained 
bodies  of  the  crucified  men  hung  wanly.  A  dozen 
or  so  of  people  stood  about— they  did  not  seem  to 
be  speaking.  Sentinels  had  been  posted,  but  the  re- 
mainder sat  at  ease  on  the  ground  in  an  irregular 
group.  There  was  a  very  faint  rattle  as  dice  were 
shaken  into  a  metal  helmet.  At  the  foot  of  the 
central  cross  someone  huddled,  seeming  to  have 
flung  both  arms  about  it.  Three  other  figures 
stood  together  by  this  cross — two  women  and  a  lad. 

A  qualm  of  pity  touched  David.  The  naked  body 
nailed  to  the  midmost  cross  had  been  borne  by  a 
woman — flesh  of  her  flesh.  The  nails  that  trans- 
fixed the  hands  and  feet  had  pierced  this  woman's 
heart  also.  .  .  .  Darkness — and  ever  deeper  dark- 
ness. .  .  .  Why  should  he  pity?  That  which  had 
ordered  all  things  was  pitiless.  It  had  killed  his 
soul,  and  now  he  could  look  it  between  the  eyes 
without  even  the  quiver  of  a  quailing  nerve.  Where 
there  is  no  hope  there  is  no  fear,  and  without  fear 
there  is  no  pain.  .  .  .  Why  should  he  pity  others 
when  neither  he  nor  they  were  pitied  by  that  which 
over-ruled  them.  A  feeling  of  stony  indifference 
hardened  him  inwardly,  and  he  welcomed  it.  He 
folded  his  arms  across  his  breast. 

The  mounted  centurion  sat  his  horse  as  though 
both  he  and  it  were  cast  in  bronze.  The  thrown 
dice  rattled  in  the  helmet. 

"Body  o'  Bacchus !"  grunted  the  thrower. 

Aerain  came  the  minute  tinkle  of  the  dice — audi- 
ble  only  because  the  world  seemed  to  hold  its 
breath. 


214  REVELATION 

"My  God!  My  God!  Why  hast  Thou  forsaken 
me?" 

It  was  a  sudden,  ringing  cry  from  the  mute,  cen- 
tral cross.    A  terrible  cry.  .   .   .  Desolation. 

The  centurion  turned  his  head.  The  onlookers 
stirred.  A  fresh  ripple  of  interest  appeared  to 
quicken  them. 

Scarcely  a  quiver  of  expression  passed  across 
David's  face.  .   .   . 

God  forsook  everyone,  from  the  first  even  to  the 
last.  To  the  eyes  of  his  mind  creation's  misery  of 
betrayal  flowed  past  him  where  he  stood,  like  a 
black,  shoreless  tide,  freighted  with  infinite  wreck- 
age. .  .  . 

The  violet  darkness  deepened,  if  that  were  possi- 
ble. The  immobility  of  the  air  was  as  that  of  a 
stretched  bowstring.     Surely  the  rain  would  come. 

The  head  that  was  crowned  with  thorns  lifted. 

"It  is  finished!" 

The  second  cry  rang  louder  than  the  first — 
clearer.  It  resembled,  strangely,  the  victory-cry  of 
the  exhausted  but  triumphant  runner,  falling  for- 
ward as  he  attains  the  goal. 

A  tremor  shook  the  ground.  Then  the  hill 
heaved  like  a  sea-swell.  The  three  laden  crosses 
trembled — rocked  like  the  bare  masts  of  a  careen- 
ing ship.  The  dumb  lips  of  the  earth  parted,  and  a 
fissure  gaped.  A  fugitive  glare  of  heat  lightning 
flickered  from  zenith  to  horizon.  From  the  shaken 
city  came  the  crash  of  collapsing  walls. 

A  terrified  babble  broke  out  upon  the  Hill  of  the 
Skull.  Some,  thrown  down  by  the  earthquake,  re- 
mained upon  all  fours,  striking  their  foreheads 
against  the  gravel,  and  calling  upon  God.     Others 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  215 

hurried,  scrambling  and  stumbling,  down  the  hill, 
instinctively  seeking  shelter. 

David  stood  his  ground,  rigid  as  the  Roman  sen- 
tinels whom  discipline  had  converted  into  statues 
of  men.  He  had  turned  his  face  to  the  livid  light- 
ning glare,  and  his  lips  writhed  back  as  though  he 
would  have  laughed  again.  .  .  .  The  man  whom  he 
had  followed  as  the  invincible  Messiah  of  God — 
the  Holy  One  of  Israel — was  dead  upon  a  gibbet 
between  two  thieves ;  the  glory  was  a  heavy  and 
stagnant  darkness,  and  Jerusalem — shaken  by  no 
winds  of  triumph,  and  chariots  of  angels — was  a 
grey,  huddled  city  in  the  power  of  a  chance-born 
earthquake.  .  .   . 

The  heaviness  had  lightened  perceptibly.  The  air 
stirred,  agitating  the  dry  weeds  that  grew  between 
the  stones.    No  rain  had  fallen.  .  .  . 


V 


"Come  here,  Astarte.    Come  and  look." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Three  men  going  to  be  crucified.  Come  quick, 
or  you'll  miss  them !" 

"I  don't  want  to  look.  I  wouldn't  look  if  there 
were  a  hundred  of  them  !  .  .  .  I  wish  I'd  never  been 
born." 

There  was  the  breath-catching  of  a  sob. 

The  tripping  ring  of  the  shod  hoofs  of  a  walking 
horse  was  unmistakable.  .  .  .  Salome,  lounging  on 
shabby  red  cushions  in  the  hanging  window,  had 
thrust  her  face  right  against  the  grating. 

"Oh — the  poor  brutes !"  she  said.  .  .  .  "Don't  cry 
— there's  a  darling!" 


216  REVELATION 

She  drew  back  from  the  grating,  gathered  her- 
self up,  and  crossed  the  floor. 

Astarte  lay  on  the  red  mattress.  Her  hair  was 
dishevelled,  her  eyes  inflamed.  Salome  put  her 
bangle-laden  arms  about  her. 

"My  poor  little  pigeon  of  a  sister!  Don't  break 
your  heart  over  a  man,  dearie — they  only  amuse 
themselves  with  us." 

Astarte  began  to  sob  hysterically  again,  hiding 
her  face  against  Salome's  bosom.  Her  own  im- 
pulses had  been  thwarted  for  five  days,  and  she  was 
enraged,  and  helpless,  and  unhappy.  Salome's  hag 
of  a  mother  would  not  permit  her  to  leave  the 
house — she  was  as  much  a  prisoner  as  when  she 
had  lived  under  the  authority  of  Dekerto.  And  she 
wanted  David.  She  was  afraid  of  the  house-court 
and  of  all  the  people  of  the  neighbourhood,  but  she 
wanted  to  go  to  him,  feverishly,  unreasonably,  per- 
sistently. .  .  .  Quite  possibly,  if  the  door  had  been 
unbarred  for  her  to  pass  out,  she  would  have  stayed 
where  she  was,  uncertain  between  her  love-need 
and  her  physical  fear.  But  the  door  remained 
barred,  and  she  raged  and  sulked. 

"There— there!  I'll  grant  he's  handsome  and 
talked  honey  to  you — but  they  all  do  that.  It's  a 
rotten  fig  to  a  cake  of  raisins  that  if  you  met  him  a 
month  from  now  and  asked  him  to  tell  you  your 
name  he  couldn't  do  it.  A  man  pays  no  more  real 
attention  to  the  women  he  kisses  than  to  the  plat- 
ters he  eats  off.  .  .  .  But  it's  hard,  sometimes,  not 
to  care.  One  of  Herod's  athletes  used  to  come 
here  last  year.     I  was  crazy  about  him,  so  I  know 

what  it  feels  like.  .    .   .  Let  me  make  you  pretty 

there's  a  darling!     Nothing  helps  one  more  than 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  217 

eye-paint,  and  some  trinkets,  and  a  smell  of  myrrh 
about  one's  clothes.'' 

Astarte  allowed  herself  to  be  partially  comforted. 
She  sat  up  and  bathed  her  face,  and  Salome  combed 
out  her  hair  with  a  bone  comb  and  bound  her  brows 
with  a  plaited  green-and-purple  fillet.  Then  she 
dressed  her  in  a  very  short  green  jacket,  stiff  with 
silver  thread,  and  a  skirt  of  purple  silk  that  fell 
from  a  low,  tinselled  loin-belt.  Betwixt  belt  and 
jacket  the  satin  skin,  magnolia-white,  was  exposed. 
Rounded  silver  anklets  set  off  her  narrow  ankles. 
Salome  arranged  the  little  pots  of  kohl,  vermilion, 
and  blue  paint  for  the  eyelids,  and  the  brushes  with 
which  to  apply  them. 

"If  I  didn't  love  you  like  my  own  sister  I'd  be 
jealous !"  she  said. 

"Salome  !    Oh,  Salome !" 

The  calling  voice  creaked  like  a  rusted  door- 
hinge. 

The  plump-figured  girl  rose  with  a  sort  of  grunt 
from  where  she  had  knelt  behind  the  array  of  tiny 
beauty  pots. 

"I  wanted  to  finish  you  myself — it's  like  dressing 
a  doll.  But  sit  quite  still,  and  perhaps  I  will  soon 
be  back." 

She  went  out. 

Astarte  took  up  a  mirror — a  slightly  convex  disc 
of  pale,  polished  bronze,  whose  handle  was  a  nude 
female  figure,  its  arms  at  its  sides.  She  looked  at 
her  reflection.  It  pleased  her,  and  for  the  moment 
she  felt  almost  happy.  An  odour  of  myrrh  clung 
to  the  garments  that  semi-clothed  her.  If  a  white- 
and-tawny  lily  could  become  self-conscious — aware 
of  its  blended  milk  and  gold,  its  satin  contours — its 


218  REVELATION 

spontaneous  self-delight  would  have  been  very  sim- 
ilar. .  .  .  Then  a  needle-like  pang  stabbed  her. 
David  should  see  her  now.  David  should  enter  by 
the  doorway  through  which  Salome  had  gone  out. 
What  was  the  use  of  dressing-up  if  David  could  not 
see  her?  Her  demands  from  life  narrowed  to  one 
only — the  embrace  of  his  arms.  Her  mind-picture 
of  him  incarnated  everything  that  was  passionately 
desirable.  .  .  .  She  must  escape.  She  felt  that  ^he 
could  not  endure  the  passage  of  another  day!  But 
would  he  have  altered  towards  her  on  account  of 
Valerius?  It  was  as  though  a  cold  wind  blew  in 
upon  her.  She  was  divided  between  desire,  doubt, 
and  resentment  against  this  doubt ;  against  her  cap- 
tivity, against  the  Roman  who  had  offended  her 
self-esteem  and  involved  her  in  contrary  circum- 
stances. It  was  unbearable  that  she  could  not  have 
what  she  wanted!  Then  she  recalled  David- 
kisses,  and  her  heart  seemed  to  melt  like  wax  in 
fire.  .   .    . 

She  sat  straight-backed  upon  the  mattress,  her 
eyes  vital  and  having  a  kind  of  driven  lu<>k.  Her 
impulses  resembled  a  chariot-team  of  unschooled, 
spirited  horses  fretting,  fighting,  and  straining  in 
opposite  directions. 

The  room,  semi-dark  always,  had  grown  murky. 
The  day,  evidently,  had  become  overcast — a  po- 
ble  presage  of  thunder  and  rain.  One  drew  an  in- 
voluntary deep  breath,  as  though  to  obtain  a 
draught  of  air  that  would  satisfy,  and  so  became 
conscious  of  a  sense  of  oppression. 

Astarte  drew  just  such  a  breath.  A  considerable 
time  had  elapsed  since  Salome's  outgoing. 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  219 

There  was  a  footstep.  Someone  entered  the 
room,  and  Astarte  turned  her  head. 

"Eh,  dear!  how  dark  it's  got!  Get  up,  there's  a 
good  girl,"  said  a  creaking  voice. 

It  was  Salome's  mother. 

Astarte  rose. 

"Now  listen  to  me.  There's  a  gentleman  down- 
stairs we  want  to  please.  .  .  .  Come  down  now,  and 
show  him  the  stomach  dance.'' 

"Yes  ..."  said  Astarte.  She  felt  listless — in- 
different. 

The  hag-like  woman  who  had  Once  been  a  beauty 
came  close  to  her,  turned  her  about  with  little  pat- 
ting touches. 

"Oh,  pretty — very  pretty.  .  .  .  You're  a  jewel — 
that's  what  you  are,  my  dear." 

A  half-formed  thought  dawned  in  Astarte's 
mind.  .  .  .  Perhaps  if  she  danced  really  well  and 
Salome's  mother  was  very  pleased  with  her  she 
would  be  allowed  to  go  out.  .  .  .  She  permitted 
herself  to  be  overlooked  and  patted  with  the  pas- 
sivity with  which  she  had  endured  Dekerto's  plump 
hands.  Then  she  followed  the  mother  of  Salome 
out  of  the  chamber  which,  during  the  last  half- 
hour,  had  seemed  to  darken  from  moment  to  mo- 
ment. An  outer  room  lay  beyond  it,  and  then  a 
stair  descending  into  the  interior  court.  On  the 
curb  of  the  well  that  was  in  this  court  sat  a  grey 
and  rose  coloured  parrot  with  a  clipped  wing.  It 
seemed  to  feel  the  menace  of  the  heavy  sky,  for  its 
plumage  was  ruffled  as  though  it  were  sick  or 
moulting. 

In  the  principal  chamber  of   the   house   several 


220  REVELATION 

lamps  had  been  lighted.  Carpets  of  fairly  good 
quality  hung  against  the  walls.  The  air,  un- 
refreshed,  unsunned,  and  cool  as  a  cellar,  smelt 
rather  mustily  of  musk.  On  a  cushion  a  stoutish, 
bearded  man  sat  cross-legged,  a  fat  hand  on  each 
thigh.  Salome  leaned  against  him,  one  arm  about 
his  neck.  She  had  assumed  an  air  of  pliant  and 
inviting  surrender  as  an  actor  in  a  Greek  comedy 
dons  a  smiling  mask. 

"Here  is  the  dancer,  sir.  A  paragon — a  rival  <-i 
the  full  moon."  Then,  in  a  half-whisper  to  As- 
tarte :  "Stand  under  the  lamp.  Now  do  well,  there's 
a  dear.     He's  got  money." 

Suspended  by  a  chain  from  the  ceiling  was  a 
quadruple  bronze  lamp  with  a  flame  at  each  of  it^ 
four  lips.  Automatically  Astarte  >alaamed,  salut- 
ing the  stout,  seated  man.  and  Salome,  withdrawing 
her  bare  arm  from  about  his  neck,  took  into  her 
lap  a  tambourine.  Astarte  drew  a  slow,  prepara- 
tory breath.  She  was  neither  pleased  nor  sullen. 
She  wanted  to  gratify  Salome's  mother,  and  it  \ 
as  easy  to  dance  as  to  walk.  .    .   . 

The  butter-yellow  light  of  the  lamps  was  the 
only  illumination.  Salome's  mother  squatted  on  the 
floor,  each  of  her  innumerable  wrinkles  the  im- 
print of  a  sin;  her  finger-tips  stained  auburn  with 
henna,  as  though  she  were  still  a  beauty.  A  cock- 
roach hastened  with  a  dry  scuttle  from  one  van- 
tage point  to  another.  Beneath  the  suspended  four- 
fold lamp  Astarte  stood,  veiled  in  the  wonder  of 
her  hair  like  a  fountain  image  in  the  falling  waters 
of  a  fountain  of  red  gold. 

Salome    raised   the   tambourine   and    rapped   the 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  221 

stretched  parchment  with  the  knuckles  of  her  right 
hand.    There  was  a  light  thud,  and  a  jingle. 

With  effortless  instancy  Astarte  assumed  the 
first  posture  of  the  stomach  dance.  Her  trained 
muscles  had  obeyed  the  signal  as  a  snake-charmer's 
serpents  respond  to  the  first  quaver  of  his  flute. 

Thud,  jingle;  thud,  jingle.  The  rhythmic  rap  and 
shake  of  the  tambourine  was  measured,  monoton- 
ous, yet  stimulating.  Astarte  did  not  dance  with 
the  laughing  and  vital  abandon  of  Semla,  but  she 
was  more  beautiful  than  a  dream,  and  her  air  of 
mechnical  performnce  threw,  as  it  were,  a  veil 
about  the  gestures  and  muscle-play,  heightening 
their  allure  as  a  film  of  fine  silk  trebles  the  potency 
of  the  almond-white  body  it  partially  blurs. 

The  stout  man's  nostrils  dilated,  and  his  coarse 
lips  seemed  to  bulge  outward,  becoming  looser  and 
moister.  Salome's  mother,  squatting  like  a  mag- 
nified spider,  beamed,  mentally  felicitating  herself. 
A  dew  of  perspiration  stood  on  Astarte's  forehead 
as  on  the  forehead  of  Semla  when  she  salaamed, 
panting,  to  the  guests  of  Herod.  .  .  .  For  several 
moments  she  held  the  final  pose — purged  of  its 
grossness  by  the  golden  fire  of  her  beauty  and  the 
snow  of  her  indifference.  Then  she  relaxed,  bent 
from  the  hips,  and  saluted  again  the  man  upon 
the  cushion. 

Salome's  mother  scrambled  up. 

"Did  I  not  tell  you  the  truth,  sir — and  less  than 
the  truth?  You  won't  find  her  equal  anywhere,  and 
her  hair  is  not  dyed." 

The  stout  man  grunted,  his  hot,  black-brown 
eyes  on  Astarte. 

"Mother "  said  Salome. 


222  REVELATION 

"Be  quiet — you!"  Then  again  suave  and  wheed- 
ling: "What  is  your  will,  sir?'' 

The  stout  man  blew  out  his  nostrils  like  a  buffalo. 

"The  dancer.  .   .   .  Yes." 

He  fumbled  and  drew  forth  a  purse.  Into  the 
avid  palm  of  Salome's  mother  he  dropped  five 
pieces  of  gold. 

Suddenly  the  carpet-hidden  walls  quivered.  The 
carpets  swayed  outward  as  though  a  storn 
had  nosed  its  way  behind  them,  bellying  them.  The 
suspended  lamp  swung  like  a  pendulum,  its  four 
flames  fluttering  like  frightened  breath.  The  house 
rocked. 

Astarte    heard    an    inarticulate    fear-sound.      She 
was  aware  of  screams  that  seemed  to  come   from 
some  other  part  of  the  house       The  flo,.r  heaved. 
One  of  the  smaller  lamps  that  was  set  on  a  led 
fell,  and  broke,  and  a  thin  blue  flame  flickered  o> 
the  spilt  oil.     Relief,  equalling  her  horror,  bathed 
her  as  with  sweet  waters.     She  was  incapable 
the  moment  of  anything  else.    At  the  other  end  of 
the  room  a  panic-stricken  bulk  belaboured  the  shut 
door  with  thick  fists. 

There  was  a  crash  and  louder  screams.  The  walls 
seemed  to  bend  inward.  A  crack  zig-zagged  like 
a  quiver  of  lightning  across  the  ceiling  from  side 
to  side.  Suddenly  the  suspended  lamp  fell.  Dark- 
ness, with  little  licking  flames  crawling  at  or 
feet.  A  howl  of  cringing  fear,  and  a  frantic  tattoo 
of  fists  upon  a  door  that  would  not  yield.  Then 
showering  missiles  as  though  the  solid  structure  of 
all  things  were  crumbling  piecemeal.  A  blurred 
cataract  of  sound.  The  consciousness  of  a  blow 
that  in  that  same  instant  destroyed  consciousness 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  223 

as  a  hammer-stroke  annihilates  some  fragile  organ- 
ism that  is  blotted 'into  not-being  too  suddenly  for 

pain.    .    .    . 

***** 

In  the  Roman  prison  it  had  become  too  dark  to 
distinguish  anything  save  the  lighter  darkness  of 
the  two-foot  square  gratings.  The  obscene  sen- 
tences scrawled  with  nail-points  or  charcoal  on  the 
defiled  walls  where  vermin  crept,  had  vanished,  and 
the  caricatures  of  Roman  officers  likewise,  and  the 
names  and  initials  of  names.  Only  the  stench  re- 
mained— full-bodied,  unescapable,  palpable  almost. 

Cymon  gnawed  unconsciously  at  his  nails.  He 
was  still  standing  erect.  The  floor,  littered  down  in 
one  place  with  reeking  straw,  was  fouler  than  the 
underfoot  of  a  cattle-pen.  His  thoughts  were  black 
— black  as  a  pit  of  pitch.  .  .  .  The  colossal  injus- 
tice of  the  whole  scheme  of  things  towered  before 
him.  The  contemplation  of  it  roused  in  him  a  fury 
that  was  as  useless  as  rage  directed  against  an  ava- 
lanche, for  it  was  impersonal,  unintelligently  ironic. 
But  those  upon  whom  it  inflicted  agony  were  sen- 
tient— self-conscious.  ...  If  only  it  were  en- 
dowed with  personality  so  that  he  could  curse  and 
insult  it !  He  would  have  given  ten  years  of  his 
life  to  believe  vividly  in  immortal  gods  who  heard 
and  saw — at  whom  he  could  shake  his  clenched  fist, 
blackening  their  names  with  his  contemptuous  hate. 
.  .  .  He  was  in  this  stinking  den  because  he  had 
championed  an  abused  criminal.  Justice  !  Faugh  ! 
A  sensible  person,  properly  cynical,  would  have 
stood  on  the  footway  with  folded  arms  and  per- 
mitted the  Roman  to  kick  the  fallen  man  to  death 


224  REVELATION 

if  he  chosen  to  do  so.    Each  for  himself.    There  was 
nothing  beyond  that,  or  above 

Beneath  his  feet  the  ground  heaved.  The  walls 
trembled.  There  was  a  Low-pitched  muttering 
rumble  like  deadened  thunder,  or  as  though  the 
earth  groaned.  Then  crashes,  distant  and  near  at 
hand.  The  heavy  door  through  which  he  had  been 
thrust  swung  suddenly  open,  for  its  outer  fasten- 
ings had  parted. 

It  was  a  moment  or  two  before  he  realized  what 
had  happened.  .  .  .  The  door  was  open.  He 
staggered,  almost  losing  his  balance,  as  the  place 
where  he  was  rocked  like  a  cradle ;  then  sprang  to 
the  gaping  doorway.  A  stone  passage  ran  back 
from  it  to  a  twisting  flight  of  steps.  He  saw  no 
one,  and  leapt  for  these  steps  like  a  slipped  gr< 
hound.  They  led  up  to  a  guard-r*  mm.  It  \ 
empty.  He  gained  its  outer  doorway,  crossed  a 
court — and  was  in  the  freedom  of  the  tangled 
streets. 

It  had  all  been  so  swift,  so  unimaginable,  that 
his  first  sensation  of  relict  was  limited  to  his  de- 
liverance from  the  intolerable  stench.  He  drew  in 
the  air  like  a  person  who  has  barely  escaped  suffo- 
cation. Then  he  was  running — heading  for  the  pot- 
ter's yard. 

In  the  dim  streets  there  were  many  terrified 
people  who  had  run  out  of  their  houses  at  the  earth- 
quake. Their  holiday  clothes  appeared  ludicrous 
contrasted  with  their  fear-sallowed  faces.  They 
huddled  together,  not  knowing  what  to  expect. 
The  black  sky  lowered  as  though  pregnant  with  an 
appalling  downpour  of  rain.    Through  the  lattice  of 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  225 

hanging-windows  lamplight  was  visible.  Here  and 
there  a  wall  had  collapsed. 

Cymon  kept  on  at  a  run.  He  was  concerned 
solely  with  his  anxiety  to  reach  the  potter's  yard. 
It  urged  him  like  a  spur.  But  an  under-current  of 
his  thought  dwelt  on  the  coincidence  of  his  deliver- 
ance. ...  If  he  had  had  belief  in  any  gods  it  would 
have  possessed  a  quite  staggering  significance — 
personal  as  the  spoken  message  of  an  oracle.  But 
there  were  no  gods.  .   .   . 

There  was  no  one  in  the  potter's  yard.  He 
climbed  the  crumbling  exterior  stair,  panting  like  a 
dog,  with  a  taste  of  blood  in  his  mouth.  By  the 
parapet  someone  cowered. 

"Rama !"  said  Cymon. 

There  was  a  sound  between  a  dry  sob  and  a  cry. 
.  .  .  His  hands  were  upon  the  slight,  cowering 
figure.  He  was  clung  to — his  arms  shielded  and 
reassured  the  girl  who  clung  to  him.  She  was 
sobbing,  but  without  tears,  her  throat  dry  from 
fear.  He  could  feel  the  nervous  pulsating  of  her 
heart,  beating  just  above  his  own,  which  had  been 
quickened  distressfully  by  running.  She  was  a 
terrified  child  clinging  to  someone  older  and  better 
equipped  to  meet  the  hazards  of  Fate  than  herself. 
A  grateful  spiritual  warmth  suffused  Cymon's  con- 
sciousness. He  was  aware  of  a  new,  full-grown 
self-confidence  as  though  he  had  suddenly  acquired 
the  height  and  thews  of  adult  manhood. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  Rama.  I — I  could  not  get  back 
before.  I  was  prevented.  .  .  .  The  earthquake  is 
over." 

"Oh!  I  thought  everything  would — would  be 
shaken  down.     And  it  is  so  dark.     The  sky  looks 


226  REVELATION 

like  the  anger  of  God!  I  thought  this  building 
would  fall  and  I  would  be  crushed.  ...  It  may 
come  again !" 

"No,  no.    It's  over." 

Her  whole  body  trembled.  She  had  never  exper- 
ienced an  earthquake  before,  and  it  had  seemed 
the  first  throe  of  a  catastrophe  that  was  to  end  the 
world. 

Cymon  had  said  that  the  danger  was  ended,  but 
he  recalled  that  such  shocks  were  often  successive, 
like  sea-waves.  If  another  came  the  roof  where 
they  were  might  collapse.  ...  It  would  be  better 
to  go  beyond  the  city  and  remain  for  a  while  where 
there  were  no  walls  to  crumble. 

"Rama,"  he  said,  "there  is  nothing  to  be  afraid 
of  now,  but  I  think  we  will  go  out  of  the  town — 
just  for  a  short  time.  It's  not  far  to  the  Damascus 
Gate." 

"Oh,  yes!     Let  us  go!" 

The  blind  instinct  of  flight  was  strong  in  her. 
She  wanted  to  get  far  away  from  structures  of 
stone  that  quivered  and  vibrated,  threatening  to 
crash  to  the  ground.  Her  eyes,  so  like  an  ante- 
lope's, were  swimming  with  the  same  liquid  terror. 

Overhead  the  sky  had  lightened  a  little.  A  stirring 
of  the  air — which  had  been  inert  as  a  thing  para- 
lyzed— fanned  their  faces,  hers  blanched  by  fear, 
his  by  over-exertion.  They  descended  the  steps 
and  crossed  the  potter's  yard.  Cymon  upheld  the 
girl  by  an  arm  about  her,  for  her  knees  yielded  as 
they  had  done  when  the  strong  tremor  of  the  earth- 
quake flung  her  prone  upon  the  roof.  No  one  gave 
them  a  second  look.  The  city  was  cowed — dis- 
organized.    People  wandered  about  in  the  aimless 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  227 

manner  of  poultry  scattered  from  their  roosting- 
place  by  the  midnight  onslaught  of  a  fox.  Some 
had  dragged  furnishings  and  bundles  of  valuables 
out  into  the  street.  As  the  two  passed  out  under 
the  Damascus  Gate  a  straggling  handful  of  men 
and  youths  were  entering  the  city.  They  had  a 
hang-dog  look.  One  or  two  struck  their  breasts 
rhythmically  with  their  clenched  hands  as  in  the 
usage  of  the  synagogues  at  the  formal  confession 
of  sin.  As  the  lowering  sky  continued,  perceptibly, 
to  lighten  their  breast-strikings  lessened,  after  the 
manner  of  a  fetish-worshipper's  babble  of  invoca- 
tions which  die  off  with  the  passing  of  the  danger. 
There  was  no  speech  among  them.  They  seemed 
ashamed  of  each  other.  Their  shuffling  feet  raised 
a  momentary  dust — dust  on  which  blood  had  fallen 
three  hours  before  leaving  black  stains. 

Cymon,  the  semi-starved  Greek  outcast  sprung 
from  a  line  of  patriots  and  dreamers,  and  the  home- 
less Hebrew  girl  who  was  still  more  child  than 
woman— a  pair  of  strays — turned  aside  from  the 
Damascus  road,  dappled  with  dry  dung,  following  a 
camel-path  that  led  towards  a  green  mist  of  spring 
foliage.  To  the  right,  some  distance  off,  was  a  low, 
bald  hill — a  mere  rise.  Three  crosses  crowned  it, 
for  it  was  the  place  of  execution.  Cymon  glanced 
that  way.  From  a  sudden  rift  in  the  leaden  heavi- 
ness a  sword-stroke  of  sunlight,  stormily  golden, 
struck  downward,  bathing  the  central  cross,  caus- 
ing it  to  stand  out  extraordinarily  like  a  right- 
angled  symbol  of  gold  against  a  sheet  of  purplish 
slate.  The  sagging  naked  figure  that  hung  against 
it,  motionless  as  though  carved  from  ivory  or  bone, 
was  wonderfully  distinct.    One  could  even  see  from 


228  REVELATION 

that  distance  that  the  dropped  head  was  filleted  in 
some  fashion.  .  .  .  "It's  the  man  who  fell  in  the 
street — the  man  who  was  crowned  with  thorns," 
said  Cymon's  thought.    "I  didn't  do  much  for  him!" 

Soldiers  moved  between  the  crosses,  their  helmets 
catching  the  momentary  stormy  light.  .  .  .  There 
was  a  dreadful  scream,  as  though  a  soul  were  being 
rent  from  a  body  like  quivering  entrails  from  a 
living  carcass  ;  and  then  another.  .  .  .  The  soldiers 
had  struck  the  two  crucified  caravan  robbers  with 
clubs,  breaking  their  legs  above  and  below  the  knee. 
The  purpose  of  these  blows  was  to  procure  imme- 
diate death.  Before  nightfall  the  bodies  would  be 
cast  out  upon  the  smouldering  refuse  heaps  in  the 
Valley  of  Hinnom. 

At  the  death-screams  Rama  started  like  a  touched 
hare,  clutching  Cymon. 

"It's  nothing — it's  the  executions  on  the   Hill  of 

the  Skull,"  he  said  quickly.    "Don't  look It's 

finished  now.    The  poor  wretches  are  dead." 

They  kept  on,  walking  in  the  soft  dust  of  the 
camel-path.  It  skirted  a  hedge  enclosing  a  closely 
planted  garden  where  the  sprinkled  blossoms  of  a 
few  fruit-trees  resembled  small  white  butterflies 
or  the  petals  of  roses.  Against  the  scarped  face  of 
a  bank  which  the  hedge  crowned  branches  leaned. 
covered  with  mats — the  shelter  of  a  pilgrim  or 
nomad.  It  was  untenanted,  and  the  ashes  of  the 
little  fire  that  had  been  kindled  before  it  were 
several  days  old. 
Cymon  halted. 

"We  won't  go  any  farther."  he  said.    "To-morrow 
is  the  Sabbath,  when  I  can  earn  nothing  in  the  city 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  229 

anyhow.  We  will  stay  here  until  the  day  follow- 
ing. 

Rama,  standing  in  the  camel-path,  her  narrow, 
sandalled  feet  dust-whitened,  looked  at  the  green 
of  the  spring  that  spoke  to  the  eyes  like  the  babble 
of  water  to  the  ears  of  a  wayfarer  in  an  arid  land. 

Quiet  surrounded  them,  fringed  by  indeterminate 
sounds  that  were  all  distant. 

"I — I  think  it  is  beautiful  here." 

Beneath  the  shelter  more  mats  had  been  spread, 
covering  the  bare  earth ;  and  at  the  bottom  of  a 
hanging  pouch  of  goatskin  was  a  little  of  the  aro- 
matic honey  of  wild  bees.  To  this  Cymon  added 
a  handful  of  figs.  They  sat  on  the  mats  in  the 
shade  of  the  half-hut,  dipping  the  figs  in  the  honey 
before  they  ate  them.  The  extraordinarily  overcast 
day  continued  to  clear,  and  here  and  there  a  more 
diffused  sunlight  glinted  wanly.  Somewhere  an 
insect  chirped.  In  the  shadow  under  the  bank  there 
was  a  smell  of  growing  grass,  moist  earth,  and 
fire-ashes,  with  an  elusive  thread  of  hidden  violet 
or  lily  scent.  Rama's  panic  fell  away  from  her. 
She  smiled  faintly  at  Cymon  when  he  spoke  to  her 
or  she  answered  him.  Her  lucid  eyes  were  of  a 
golden-brown  now  that  the  fear-dilated  pupils  had 
contracted.  For  the,  first  time  since  she  had  be- 
come an  outcast  a  little  feeling  of  happiness  stole 
over  her. 

Cymon  had  stretched  himself  at  full  length, 
munching  honey-sweetened  figs  with  an  unusual 
sensation  of  contentment.  He  observed  Rama's 
slim  hands,  the  pathos  of  her  profile,  the  youth  of 
her  throat  and  slightly  rounded  shoulders.  He  was 
aware  of  a  keen  protective  impulse — poignant,  but 


230  REVELATION 

not  painful — and,  strangely,  the  flattering  sense  of 
self-confidence  again  possessed  him  like  a  grateful 
warmth  that  was  both  spiritual  and  physical. 

In  the  hedged  garden  above  them  was  the  sparse 
white  and  pink  blossom-snow  of  April,  and  in  the 
thorn  bushes  and  the  new,  tender  grass  beside  the 
camel-path  the  sap  stirred,  quickening  towards  self- 
fulfilment  and  efflorescence. 


VI 


When  David  for  the  second  time  descended  the 
cityward  slopes  of  the  Hill  of  the  Skull,  no  purpose 
drove  him — he  was  raked  by  the  spur  of  no  emotion. 
He  walked  like  an  automaton  that  has  been  set  in 
movement  by  some  independent  intelligence. 
Ahead,  others  were  descending.  They  stumbled, 
and  the  stones  turned  noisily  under  their  feet.  The 
shiver  of  reviving  air  that  had  followed  the  earth- 
quake again  set  the  wretched  weeds  trembling. 

Spiritually  he  might  have  been  compared  to  one 
who,  having  just  died,  moves  in  a  new  world  which 
holds  as  yet  no  meaning  for  him.  But  it  was  his  soul 
which  was  dead.  His  body  lived ;  he  walked,  he 
saw,  he  felt  the  stirring  air  against  his  face.  He 
observed  the  motions  of  a  half-bearded,  neurotic- 
looking  youth  who  struck  his  breast  and  muttered 
like  a  person  deranged,  but  they  conveyed  nothing 
to  him.  As  he  approached  the  city  it  was  as  though 
he  were  about  to  enter  a  foreign  town,  where  every- 
thing was  separate  from  all  previous  experience, 
but  the  very  stones  of  it  were  saturated  with  the 
emotions  he  had  undergone ;  and  the  attenuated 
ghosts  of  these  emotions,  voiceless  and  powerless, 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  231 

walked  with  him.  He  looked  at  the  houses,  the 
street-arches,  the  deserted  shop-alcoves.  The  moist 
flights  of  stone  steps  climbing  the  hillsides  between 
huddling  walls  appeared  as  strange  as  staircases  in 
a  dream  that  might  lead  to  anything  or  nothing. 
Yet  unsubstantial  shapes — wraiths  of  aspiration — 
ascended  and  descended  them,  irridescent  as  the 
beings  in  Jacob's  vision  of  the  ladder  between 
heaven  and  earth.  David  recognized  these  wraiths 
— -they  joined  the  many  ghosts  that  accompanied 
him.  He  did  not  curl  his  lip  at  them  now  as  he 
would  have  done  an  hour  before — all  feeling  seemed 
as  dead  in  him  as  his  soul. 

A  heap  of  rubble  blocked  his  way.  A  house  had 
been  shaken  down,  the  walls  falling  inward,  and 
was  now  a  mound  of  tumbled  masonry  above  which 
the  stone-dust  hung  like  a  thinning  smoke. 

He  halted,  and  his  gaze,  which  had  been  level, 
lowered.  At  his  feet  the  upper  half  of  a  girl's  body, 
and  her  bent,  outflung  arm  lay  clear  of  the  wreck- 
age. Her  henna-coloured  hair,  outspread  beneath 
her  head,  accentuated  the  utter  pallor  of  her  face 
as  a  barbaric  setting  of  red-gold  enhances  the  stain- 
lessness  of  a  pearl. 

A  shudder  passed  over  David  like  that  which 
flees  across  the  limbs  of  a  waking  sleeper.  His 
brows  contracted.  Hiis  lips  parted  as  though  he 
were  about  to  speak,  but  without  uttering  a  word 
he  dropped  on  one  knee  and  caught  the  girl's  half- 
contracted  hand  between  his  own — almost  as  a  man 
might  catch  at  the  trailing  garment  of  a  dream  or 
at  the  phantom  flowers  of  a  mirage  of  the  sands. 

The  lax  hand  was  faintly  warm.  A  trace  of  living 
moisture  dwelt  like  dew  in  the  palm  of  it. 


232  REVELATION 

"Astarte!" 

It  was  a  vibrant  cry  that  rang  from  end  to  end 
of  the  street,  confined  by  the  age-grey  walls  of  the 
deaf  and  blind  houses. 

The  ice  had  broken.  The  beating  of  his  heart 
shook  him  as  though  it  were  the  pounding  hoof- 
strokes  of  a  galloping  horse.  Passing  his  arm  be- 
neath the  girl's  shoulders  he  drew  her  right  out. 
There  was  no  apparent  mark  upon  her  save  slight 
bruises,  and  no  bone  had  been  shattered.  She  was 
clothed  in  a  skirt  of  purple  silk  and  a  green  jacket 
sewn  with  silver.  As  he  knelt  on  one  knee  David 
took  her  into  his  arms  and  pressed  his  mouth  on 
hers.  A  roseate  glow  enveloped  him.  The  gh<> 
and  wraiths  that  had  borne  him  company — where 
were  they?  He  was  alone  in  the  rubbish-blockd 
street  with  his  love-mate's  breathing  body  in  his 
arms.  .   .   . 

Astonishment  did  not  touch  him,  nor  any  specula- 
tion. She  was  not  dead — her  limbs  had  not  been 
crammed  into  some  dusty  cranny  of  the  vile  Valley 
of  Hinnom  to  rot  where  the  city's  refuse  smouldered 
and  festered.  She  was  living,  satin-skinned,  fra- 
grant with  the  fragrance  of  musk.  The  numbr 
passed  from  him,  and  the  sense  of  detachment  and 
of  unreality.  The  houses  that  surrounded  him  be- 
came substantial  again  and  endowed  with  ordinary 
significance.  Life  had  a  meaning  though  his  faith 
and  his  aspiration  had  been  hurled  from  their  pedes- 
tals in  one  common  ruin.  It  could  still  throb  with 
joy  and  yield  delights  that  were  both  physical  and 
spiritual.  His  divinity  was  gathered  in  his  arms — 
more  beautiful  than  all  the  jewels  of  the  world. 
He  would  worship  her — she  should  be   his  idol  of 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  233 

gold  and  ivory,  his  Holy  of  Holies,  his  oasis  of  lilies 
and  pomegranate  trees.  The  God  of  his  fathers,  in 
whose  teeth  he  had  flung  the  terrible  laughter  of 
his  disillusionment,  had  withdrawn  from  him  until 
He  loomed  only  as  a  vast,  cold  shadow  in  the  abyss. 
His  worship,  his  passionate  devotion,  his  thirst  for 
union  with  the  Ideal  enveloped  the  unconscious  girl 
like  a  garment  of  soft,  invisible  flame.  .  .  . 

He  stood  up,  holding  Astarte  easily.  The  impulse 
of  one  who  has  found  great  riches  and  hastens  to 
conceal  them  urged  him  to  bear  her  away.  But 
there  was  no  place  that  was  his  own — he  was  house- 
less, alone  as  a  palm-tree  in  the  desert.  His  thought 
quested  hither  and  thither.  .  .  .  The  grotto  in 
the  secluded  and  half-wild  garden  near  the  Damas- 
cus Gate  appeared  before  the  eyes  of  his  mind.  It 
was  cool  and  secret — a  place  where  he  could  clasp 
and  guard  his  treasure  as  a  lioness  fondles  her 
single  cub  in  a  covert.  The  current  of  men's  affairs 
would  flow  past  them  like  water,  its  unrest  sub- 
dued to  a  low,  continual  murmur. 

Gathering  the  girl  up  so  that  her  head  lay  against 
his  shoulder,  he  turned  back,  going  purposefully, 
his  eyes  watchful  for  anything  that  might  thwart 
or  hinder  him,  for  the  reborn  life  in  him  was  like 
the  glitter  of  a  drawn  sword. 

The  people  in  the  streets  barely  glanced  at  him 
— a  young  man  clad  like  a  Gentile  carrying  a  girl 
who  had  been  injured  by  the  earthquake  or  who 
had  fainted  from  the  fright  of  it.  They  were  in- 
finitely more  concerned  as  to  whether  their  cook- 
ing utensils,  shabby  mattresses,  and  bundles  of  rai- 
ment should  remain  on  the  footways  or  whether  it 
would   now  be   safe   to   drag  them  back   into   the 


234  REVELATION 

houses.  Children  were  whimpering ;  some  of  the 
sallow  women  looked  half-dead  with  panic,  others 
were  querulous  because  their  Passover  house-clean- 
ing, which  had  been  interrupted,  must  be  com- 
pleted by  sunset  under  pain  of  deadly  sin. 

"I  tell  you,  Rachel,  I  must  go  indoors !"  said  one. 
"The  water's  boiling  away  on  the  fire  at  this  very 
minute,  and  I've  a  pile  of  metal-ware  as  high  as 
my  knees  to  scour!" 

As  David  gained  the  threshold  of  the  city  a 
stormy  glare  of  sunlight  struck  earthward.  With- 
out conscious  choice  he  followed  a  faint  track  from 
which  the  hill  of  executions  was  invisible.  Enter- 
ing the  garden  he  made  his  way  between  the 
myrtles  and  apple-trees  to  the  grotto  beneath  the 
overhanging  ledge,  using  the  rough-cut  steps  that 
led  from  one  natural  terrace  to  another.  At  the 
back  of  the  grotto  the  rock  had  been  hewn  away, 
leaving  a  shelf  of  the  length  and  width  of  a  bier. 
Upon  this  shelf  the  stiff,  swaddled  body  of  a  dead 
man  or  woman  would  be  laid  if  the  grotto  should 
at  any  time  be  put  to  the  use  for  which  it  had  been 
hollowed  out. 

Laying  Astarte  for  a  moment  in  the  lap  of  the 
grass  David  heaped  the  burial  shelf  in  the  gr< 
with  the  flowers  of  the  spring — scarlet,  blue,  and 
white  anemones,  narcissi,  marigolds,  and  violets. 
When  ail  was  ready  he  lifted  her  to  a  resting-place 
that  was  sweeter  than  the  flower-strewn  bed  of  a 
bride.  The  ivy  trails  that  hung  down  before  the 
grotto  screened  them  even  from  the  man-forgotten 
garden.  Seating  himself  upon  the  block  of  stone 
David  leaned  forward,  his  eyes  on  the  perfect  face 
of  Astarte,  his  hand  laid  over  one  of  hers.    Her  deep 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  235 

unconsciousness  scarcely  troubled  him.  She 
breathed;  there  was  no  mark  on  her.  Presently 
she  would  wake.  He  had  thought  her  dead,  and 
she  was  living — his  mind  dwelt  only  upon  that, 
glowing,  concentrated  on  the  wonder  of  her  like 
a  kneeling  worshipper  lost  in  contemplation  of  a 
perfection  that  suffices  the  spirit  as  food  satisfies 
the  body.  He  took  no  account  of  the  passing  of 
time — his  consciousness  was  suspended  in  an  opal- 
escent mist  like  that  of  a  fakeer  of  the  deserts  who 
sit  for  days  together  motionless  as  a  rock. 

Sunset  came.  The  sky  had  entirely  cleared,  and 
now  swam  with  pale  apple-green  and  the  clear  red 
of  fire-embers,  overlaid  with  torn  violet  fleeces  like 
the  imperial  purple  of  a  king.  A  refracted  glow 
dwelt  in  the  grotto.  David  turned  his  head,  listen- 
ing. There  was  a  murmur  of  voices,  subdued  as 
the  grieving  of  a  dove.  The  garden  had  been 
entered  by  others.  .  .  .  He  rose  and  went  towards 
the  sound,  moving  quietly. 

At  the  higher  end  of  the  garden,  set  in  a 
smoothed  rock-face,  was  the  doorway  of  a  com- 
pleted tomb.  It  was  closed  by  a  great  circular  slab 
that  fitted  into  grooves  cut  in  the  rock.  The  re- 
fracted sunset  light  gilded  this  slab,  and  the  smooth 
face  of  the  little  cliff  and  the  pebbly  stretch  before 
the  sepulchre.  David  stood  back  in  the  shadow  of 
the  close-growing  myrtles  and  oleanders. 

Six  or  seven  people  went  by  him  at  a  little  dis- 
tance. One  he  recognized.  It  was  John.  At  that 
moment  a  woman  walking  between  John  and  an- 
other half-turned,  looking  back  towards  the  door 
of  the  tomb.  Her  face,  framed  in  the  folds  of  a 
white  head-covering,  was  colourless  as  wax.     Her 


236  REVELATION 

eyes  swam  with  the  glazing  silver  of  tears.  .  .  . 
Another  woman,  whose  loosened  hair  hung  down, 
sobbed  audibly,  her  two  hands  covering  her  face  a-. 
she  walked.  John  carried  a  fillet  of  thorns — his 
arm  hanging  at  his  side  as  though  it  were  weighted 
with  lead.    He  was  unaware  of  David. 

The  brief  sunset  lustre  failed,  leaving  the  rock- 
face  cold  as  ashes.  In  the  lucid  green  between  the 
violet  cloud-strips  a  minute  star  sparkled — the 
solemn  Paschal  Sabbath  had  begun. 

David  remained  for  several  minutes  in  the  place 
where  he  was.  He  understood  what  he  had  seen. 
.  .  .  There  had  been  a  burial  in  the  garden,  and 
the  dead  body  laid  in  the  tomb  whose  entrance  was 
closed  now  by  the  circular  stone  was  that  of  the 
crucilied  Galilsean.  This  knowledge  left  him  cold 
as  the  stony  earth  between  his  feet.  It  seemed  a 
matter  that  held  neither  interest  nor  significance 
for  him.  All  that  gave  a  purpose  and  a  meaning 
to  his  existence  was  bedded  on  spring  flowers  in 
the  grotto  that  opened  where  the  apple  and  almond 
trees  were  planted.  He  turned  on  this  thought, 
going  downhill  swiftly. 

Presently  all  the  stars  came  out  and  it  was  night. 
David,  sitting  again  upon  the  stone,  laid  his  head 
on  the  flowers  where  the  head  of  Astarte  rested, 
and  slept  deeply.  He  dreamed  of  love  that  was 
worship,  and  the  joy  of  his  dreaming  touched  his 
lips  with  a  smile.  But  Astarte's  rest  was  dream- 
less. The  blow  that  had  rendered  her  unconscious 
when  the  house  crumbled  above  her  had  caused  an 
inward  bleeding  of  the  brain.  Her  life  ebbed  like 
a  slowly  receding  tide  while  her  body  lay  like  that 
of  a  sleeper  lapped  in  the  most  perfect  repose. 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  237 

Not  half  an  arrow-flight  away,  in  the  nomad's 
shelter  beyond  the  foot  of  the  garden,  Rama  slept 
with  her  bent  arm  for  a  pillow.  At  the  threshold 
of  the  shelter  Cymon  had  stretched  himself. 

On  the  following  day — the  Great  Sabbath — a 
sprinkle  of  spring  rain  fell,  but  between  the  light 
showers  the  sun  shone  out  and  the  garden  droned 
with  the  low,  deep  note  of  a  hive  as  countless  insects 
thrummed.  Nothing  of  Astarte  stirred.  Through- 
out the  day  David  watched  by  her.  He  drank  from 
a  spring  that  bubbled  in  a  hollow  of  the  limestone 
rock,  but  was  aware  of  no  hunger.  He  waited  for 
her  awakening  in  the  certainty  of  one  who  watches 
a  closed  flower,  knowing  that  at  the  ordained 
moment  the  petals  will  open.  His  spirit  was  held 
in  a  breathlessness  that  was  in  itself  a  species  of 
motionless  rapture.  He  had  no  impatience,  no 
doubt,  no  fear.  He  did  not  again  touch  her  with 
his  lips,  but  his  eyes  dwelt  on  her  in  the  mild  twilight 
of  the  grotto,  and  the  hours  succeeded  each  other 
almost  without  his  knowledge.  .   .   . 

Beyond  the  garden  and  in  the  city  the  river  of 
circumstance  flowed  on — inexorable — moving  stead- 
ily to  its  unknown  bourn.  Between  the  showers 
Cymon  and  Rama  wandered  down  camel-paths, 
goat-paths,  and  foot-tracks,  gazed  from  a  distance 
at  the  sprawling  encampments  of  the  hundreds  of 
pilgrims  who  could  find  no  shelter  in  the  town,  and 
laughed  at  the  skipping  of  the  little  lambs  where  a 
few  nomad  shepherds  fed  their  sheep.  It  was  as 
wonderful  to  Rama  as  a  Paradise  fresh  from  the 
hands  of  God.  She  gathered  the  white  brier  roses 
and  smiled  her  soft,  lip-curving  smile  when  the 
thorns  wounded  her.  .   .   . 


238  REVELATION 

At  the  gate  of  the  house  of  Herod  Iris,  the  blonde 
Greek   posturer,    wrapped    in    a    wine-coloured    cloak, 
stood  like  a  soul  whose  wild  eyes  have  just  opened  to 
the  icy  half-light  of  Hades.     Upon  the  previous  night 
she  had  endeavoured  to  stab  or  strangle  herself,  but 
at  the  core  she  was  a  coward,  squ<  aling  at  the  first 
prick  of  pain.    The  coppery  finger-prints  of  oncoming 
leprosy  had  marked  her  body  here  and  there,  but  to 
the  unpractised  eye  there  was  as  yet  no  1 
her.     She  knew  that  this  was  so.     With  despair,  fury, 
and    terror    feeding    upon    her    entrails    like    a    triple- 
headed  serpent,  she  began  to  descend  th<  hat 
led  to  the  lower  town.     In  some  ho           f  wicl 
— until  her  disease  became  apparent — she  would  c 
fear  and  memory  to  feed  the  fires  of  excitement,  care- 
less of  the  foul  infection  she  would  spread,  careless  of 
everything  save  delirious  oblivion.   .    .    .    Beneath  the 
rubbish    pile    that    marked   the    site    of    the    bouse    of 
Salome   were  hidden  the  crushed   bodies  of   Salon 
mother  and  the  stout  man.     The  tumbl                   could 
not  be  moved  upon  the  Sabbath,  so  tl 
not  yet  been  discovered.     Salome   herself,   who   was 
unhurt,  had  sheltered  in  the             of  a  tax-collector, 
whose  trade — as  a  servant  of  the  Roman            rnment 
— automatically    rendered    him   and    his    family    social 
outcasts.     His  youngest  child   was  ill   with  a  teething 
fever  and  colic  pains,   and   Salon)              1   the  mother 
with  it,  weeping  between  whiles  over  the  disappearance 
of  the  girl  whom  she  had  adopted  as  a                 ... 
In  the   house-court   of    Dinah   and    Naomi   the   God- 
fearing husband   of    Dinah    spoke    with   other    sol 
minded  men  of  the  neighbourhood.     The  earthquake 
and  darkness  of  the   day  before  had   interrupted  the 
slaughter   of   the    Paschal    lambs,   and    dislocated    the 


TOE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  239 

ceremonies.  Very  many  had  been  unable  to  keep  the 
Law  and  eat  the  Passover  that  night.  And  also — this 
was  only  to  be  spoken  of  in  a  whisper — the  great 
curtain  of  blue  and  purple  and  scarlet  that  hung  before 
the  Holy  of  Holies,  shutting  all  light  from  it,  had 
been  rent  asunder  by  the  falling  in  opposite  directions 
of  the  two  columns  between  which  it  was  suspended ; 
and  the  awful  golden  void  of  the  inmost  shrine  was 
laid  bare.  They  were  all  agreed  that  these  things  were 
a  sign  of  the  wrath  of  God.  Hundreds  of  Jewish 
people  in  the  Holy  City  itself  broke  the  Rabbinical 
rules  day  in  and  day  out — eating  eggs  that  had  been 
laid  by  poultry  on  the  Sabbath,  taking  more  than  the 
permitted  three  steps  before  washing  their  hands  and 
faces  on  awaking  from  sleep,  administering  emetics, 
kindling  fires,  and  handling  money  at  times  when  it 
was  forbidden  to  do  so.  Above,  in  the  semi-dark 
room  where  Dinah  sat  with  her  infant  in  her  lap, 
several  women  cackled  over  the  earthquake,  each  ex- 
aggerating her  terror  to  prove  that  she  had  suffered 
more  severely  than  anyone  else.  ...  In  the  guard- 
room at  the  palace  of  the  Governor  everyone  discussed 
the  action  of  the  centurion  who  had  supervised  the 
three  crucifixions.  He  had  resigned  his  command  and 
gone  down  into  the  city  to  find  the  followers  of  the 
dead  Galilaean.  .   .   . 

Night  came  again,  flooded  with  the  mild  silver  of 
the  Passover  moon.  In  the  grotto  there  was  no  sound. 
David  slept,  his  head  pillowed  by  Astarte's.  The 
shepherd  crouching  on  the  hillside  with  a  blanket  about 
his  shoulders  spread  his  palms  to  a  handful  of  char- 
coal embers,  for  the  air  was  sharp ;  but  the  steady 
inner  glow  that  pulsed  like  a  heart  through  all  his 
dreaming  lapped  David  from  head  to  foot  in  a  bland 


240  REVELATION 

warmth.  ...  It  was  towards  morning  when  he  woke. 
The  moon  had  set  hours  before,  and  the  first  glimmer- 
ing greyness  that  comes  before  the  dawn  lightened 
along  the  eastward  hills.  There  was  a  half  articulate 
sigh.  The  hand  over  which  he  had  laid  one  of  his 
quivered.  A  thrill  struck  through  him  that  was  like 
an  arrow  of  golden  summer  lightning. 

"Astarte  .    .   ."he  said. 

It  was  the  first  word  he  had  uttered  since  he  drew 
her  from  the  ruins. 

"David.  ..." 

Her  voice  was  very  faint,  a  mere  shadow  of  a  voice, 
but  her  eyes  were  open. 

"My  happiness,  my  divinity,  my  heaven  and  earth !" 

His  arm  was  beneath  her  shoulders,  his  lips  sealed 
hers.  Faintly  he  felt  her  lips  respond.  All  his  long, 
frozen  expectancy  flashed  into  realization  as  a  poised 
wave  breaks  in  a  welter  of  diamonds  and  pearls  and 
snow-white  flowers  of  foam.  A  gust  of  dry  sobbing 
contracted  his  throat  and  caught  his  breath.  He  bowed 
his  head  until  his  forehead  rested  on  the  breast  of  the 
girl — vaguely  sweetened  with  the  fragrance  of  musk. 

"I  believed  that  you  were  dead — that  they  had  stoned 
you.  .  .  .  Oh,  Astarte,  Astarte,  without  you  there  is 
nothing!  You  are  my  life.  You — only  you — I  wor- 
ship! I  will  live  for  you — work  for  you  as  a  slave 
works.     You  are  my  divinity!" 

He  raised  his  face  from  her  breast,  looking  down 
into  hers,  his  nostrils  quivering,  his  lips  unsteady  as 
those  of  a  boy  who  has  been  weeping.  The  half- 
veiled  darkness  of  her  eyes  mingled  with  his.    .    .    . 

"David  .  .  .  I've  wanted  you  so.  I  thought  that  I 
should  never  seen  you  again.  ...  I  want  you 
to  love  me.     I  want  to  be  with  you  always.   .    .    .j 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULE  241 

I   cannot    be    happy    when    I    am    not    with   you." 

Her  voice  had  strengthened  a  little.  He  could  see 
the  movement  of  her  lips  as  she  spoke,  for  in  the  east 
the  morning  star  sickened. 

"Nothing — neither  God  nor  man — shall  part  us  any 
more!  If  God  should  hear  me  and  strike  you  with 
death,  I  will  instantly  kill  myself  and  die  with  your 
body  in  my  arms.  I  live  only  in  your  life.  I  worship 
you,  Astarte!" 

There  was  silence  for  a  long  moment  as  he  passion- 
ately kissed  her  again. 

"David   .    .    .  raise  my  head  a  little." 

He  lifted  her  until  her  head  lay  against  his  breast. 

"They  were  going  to  stone  me,  David.  I  was  so 
frightened — they  seemed  to  hate  me  so." 

"The  wolves — the  devils!  I've  cast  them  off — I 
have  no  part  with  them  now." 

"You  are  not  angry  with  me,  are  you?" 

"Angry !  Astarte,  how  should  I  be  angry  with  you  ?" 

"I  was  afraid  that  you  would  be  very  angry.  .  .  . 
But  I  don't  love  Valerius.  .  .  .  Afterwards  I  hated 
him." 

"Valerius?" 

"He  is  the  captain  of  Herod's  guard.  You  fought 
with  him  on  the  night  when  you  took  me  away.  .  .  . 
I  met  him  in  the  street,  and  he  said  that  he  wanted  to 
speak  with  me.  So  I  went  with  him  to  the  empty 
house,  and  we  sat  by  the  fountain  in  the  inner  court. 
...  I  hate  him  now  for  what  he  did — I  hate  him, 
David.  And  after  he  left  me  the  men  came,  and  your 
mother.  .  .  .  Was  it  your  mother  who  told  you  when 
you  came  home?" 

There  was  a  pause  before  the  answer. 


242  REVELATION 

David's  voice  had  dropped.  It  held  now  a  peculiar 
deadened  quality  as  though  he  himself  were  detached 
from  it — groping  to  comprehend  some  hitherta  in- 
conceivable thing,  as  a  blind  man  might  fumble  with 
the  coils  of  a  half-guessed  serpent-headed  horror  that 
will  presently  destroy  him. 

"She  was  so  angry  that  she  could  scarcely  speak. 
And  one  of  the  men  spat  on  me.  They  dragged  me  by 
the  wrists — a  very  long  way.  We  came  to  a  place 
where  there  were  columns  of  the  colour  of  pink  shells, 
and  I  felt  that  I  could  not  breathe,  and  then  it  all 
became  dark.  .  .  .  And  after  that,  when  I  was  able 
to  lift  myself  up  again,  there  was  no  one  there  save 
only  one  man.  He  was  tall,  David,  and  his  garments 
were  white.  He  must  have  sent  away  the  people  who 
were  going  to  stone  me.  .  .  .  He — he  was  strange.  I 
didn't  feel  afraid  any  more.  .  .  .  He  spoke  to  me. 
He  said  that  he  didn't  condemn  me.  When  he  spoke 
to  me  I  felt  that  I  wanted  to  cry,  though  I  was  not 
unhappy.  ..." 

She  ceased  to  speak,  her  voice  dying  softly  away 
like  a  whisper  of  dawn  wind  through  the  dim  grass. 
Her  red-golden  head,  laid  back  against  David's  breast, 
seemed  to  be  most  sweetly  at  rest — its  contentment 
simple,  sure,  and  perfect. 

David's  immobility  had  a  frozen  look.  The  grey  of 
the  dawn  had  begun  to  trickle  into  the  grotto  like  a 
colourless  liquid  outpoured  drop  by  drop.  .  .  . 
"Adulteress."  That  was  the  word  which  his  mother 
had  shrilled  at  him  in  the  house-court.  And  she  had 
spoken  the  truth  .  .  .  the  truth.  .  .  .  His  mind  re- 
peated these  things  over  and  over.  They  seemed  to 
have  no  significance,  but  he  was  aware,  as  though  he 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  243 

stood  on  the  sheer  verge  of  it,  of  a  void — limitless, 
lightless,  cold  as  the  touch  of  death.  .   .   . 

The  head  on  his  breast  moved  ever  so  lightly. 

"David.   ..." 

Ah!  .  .  .  the  full  significance  flashed  on  him.  He 
saw — he  realized.  Under  the  blinding  pain  of  it  every- 
thing became  momentarily  black. 

"David,  kiss  me  again.  .  .  .  I — I  feel  as  though  I 
were  sinking.  But  it  cannot  be  so.  .  .  .1  am  in 
your  arms." 

Her  voice  had  sunk  to  a  shadow  of  itself,  as  at  the 
first.  In  the  grotto  the  colourless  light  was  now  clear 
as  dew.  On  the  wax- white  face  of  the  girl  the  impress 
of  death  was  unmistakable. 

David's  soul  was  one  red,  gaping  wound;  he  was 
dizzy  with  the  nausea  of  pain,  but  some  deep  spring 
of  compassion — of  a  quick  human  pitifulness — had 
not  yet  dried.  .  .  .  The  sweat  of  the  sudden  agony 
was  on  his  forehead.  He  did  not  consciously  think. 
.  .  .  He  bowed  his  head,  and  his  mute  lips  touched 
the  lips  of  Astarte. 

The  rock  in  which  the  grotto  was  hollowed  out 
seemed  to  tremble  slightly.  It  was  like  the  vibration 
of  a  harpstring;  and  with  that  vibrant  tremor  a 
thin  arrow  of  the  purest  gold  struck  through  the 
hanging  ivy-trails  and  lit  with  a  swift  touch  of  glory 
the  dark  head  that  had  bent  down  to  the  red-golden 
one.  .  .  .  The  rim  of  the  sun  had  lifted  above  the 
edge  of  the  world.  The  tremor  might  have  been  that 
of  a  body  when,  at  a  word,  life  replaces  death. 

David's  head  lifted.  The  light  trembled  on  the 
face  of  the  girl.  She  might  have  been  asleep,  but  she 
was  dead.  He  disengaged  himself,  allowing  her  to 
lapse  softly  back  upon  the  wilted  flowers.     Her  atti- 


244  REVELATION 

tude  was  that  of  natural  slumber — deep  exhaustion 
abandoned  to  serene,  delicious  rest.  She  had  died 
under  the  kiss  of  the  man  whose  heart  she  had  broken 
— died  ignorant,  happy  as  a  so  ft- furred  kitten  that 
curls  down  to  drowse  in  the  lap  of  love.  Her  pains, 
her  fears  were  over.  She  had  been  thirsty  for  life, 
and  had  drunk  deeply  of  it,  finding  it  both  bitter  and 
sweet ;  but  it  was  the  sweetness  that  had  dwelt  on  her 
lips  at  the  last.  She  was  even  as  she  appeared  to  be — 
a  sleeping  child  whose  pretty,  undisciplined  hands, 
snatching  at  joy,  have  shattered  things  infinitely 
precious.  And  in  the  sleep  from  which  she  would 
never  again  awake,  she  smiled  as  though  the  memory 
of  joys  dwelt  innocently  with  her. 

Other  arrows  of  the  sun  had  entered  the  grotto. 
The  liquid  light  fingered  the  silver  stitching  of  the 
green  bodice  moulded  to  the  form  that  was  stilled  for 
ever ;  it  caressed  the  silver  anklets  that  seemed  too 
heavy  for  the  childish  ankles,  it  aureoled  the  outspread 
hair.  Close  at  hand  a  bird  began  to  sing  as  though 
the  beating  heart  of  its  life  were  pulsing  out  upon 
the  air  in  melody.  David  stood  by  the  burial  shelf. 
He  looked  at  the  beauty  lying  there,  in  which  there 
was  no  flaw  or  blemish.  .  .  .  Valerius.  The  captain 
of  Herod's  guard.  .  .  .  Oh,  God !  He  raised  his 
clenched  hands,  his  face  strained  upward — the  lips 
drawn  backward  from  the  set  teeth  as  though  he  were 
undergoing  torture.  He  was  robbed,  despoiled — the 
last,  the  innermost  sanctuary  of  his  life  defiled  like  a 
shrine  where  beasts  have  been  stabbed.  ...  It  was 
unendurable.  He  must  kill,  or  die,  or  presently  go 
mad.  There  was  a  pressure,  a  tension  in  his  brain 
that   would,   perhaps,   snap.    .     .    .    Mechanically   he 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  245 

parted  the  ivy-trails  and  passed  from  the  grotto  into 
the  new  day. 

He  saw  the  many  white  blossoms  that  were  like 
alighted  butterflies  upon  the  apple  and  almond  trees. 
Slivers  of  sunlight — antennae  of  gold — pierced  every- 
where the  lattice  work  of  newly  budded  leaves.  Every- 
thing was  jewelled,  gilded;  impearled  with  petals  so 
exquisitely  frail  that  they  appeared  semi-transparent. 
To  every  spoke  of  a  wheel-shaped  spider's  web,  spun 
overnight,  hung  a  diamond  drop  that  cradled  rain- 
bows. The  birds  sang  still.  It  was  the  transcendent 
miracle  of  clear  morning  in  the  spring — which  is  joy 
welling  from  a  perpetual  fountain  and  hope  eternal, 
eternally  triumphant. 

David  looked  at  tho  white  and  at  the  gold  with 
eyes  across  which  a  film  seemed  to  have  been  drawn. 
The  blood  drummed  in  his  temples.  Dully  he  ap- 
prehended the  unspeakable  mockery  of  it  all — as 
though  a  grinning  skull  should  hold  a  flower  between 
its  teeth.  A  flash  of  scarlet  flickered  athwart  his 
vision,  but  the  inner  blackness,  all-engulfing,  blotted 
it  out  There  is  a  certain  rapture  in  red  fury,  but 
even  that  last  flame  was  quenched  now.  He  neither 
cursed  nor  muttered  the  name  of  God.  .    .    . 

The  sweetly  trilling  bird  broke  off  suddenly  as 
though,  having  reached  the  sheerest  summit  of  its 
ecstacy,  the  climax  came  in  a  rapt  hush.  A  level  sun- 
shaft  smote  dazzlingly  between  the  blossom-sprays. 
.  .  .  Stumbling,  David  moved  forward  perhaps  a 
dozen  steps,  not  knowing  what  he  did.  .  .  .  But  there 
was  someone  right  before  him — someone  he  had 
almost  touched  as  he  stopped  short.  The  apple  and 
almond  trees  stood  back  from  the  little  oval  of  grass, 
starred  with  a  pale  violet  or  two.    Above,  a  miniature 


246  REVELATION 

steepness  of  rock  in  which  steps  had  been  cut  was 
crowned  with  dark  shrubs.  The  paling  sky  was 
hyacinth. 

David  was  looking  at  the  man  who  barred  his  way. 
.  .  .  He  was  tall.  His  white  raiment  was  outlined 
by  the  strong  morning  light  behind  him.  His  hand, 
which  he  had  stretched  out  a  little  way  as  if  to  halt 
the  young  man,  bore  a  large  wound  as  though  some 
blunt-pointed  thing  had  been  driven  into  the  palm  of 
it,  transfixing  it  from  side  to  side,  and  the  gash  had 
then  been  widened  by  the  drag  of  weight.  ...  In 
the  street  where  the  sick  had  been  laid  out  upon  their 
mattresses,  in  the  street  where  *he  pilgrims  had  spread 
their  garments  before  the  white  she-ass,  he  had  looked 
directly  into  the  blue-grey  eyes,  infinitely  quiet,  that 
met  his  now.  .  .  .  There  was  a  rushing  sound  in 
his  ears  like  great  winds,  or  waters,  or  the  measure- 
less sweep  of  the  torrent  of  Life  itself.  He  felt  the 
sting  of  tears,  and  they  were  sweeter  than  rain  on 
the  desert  that  causes  it  to  blossom  in  roses  and  in 
myrrh-plants.  .  .  .  He  sank  to  his  knees.  He  was 
aware  that  a  hand  touched  him — that  hand  that  had 
shaped  wooden  ox-yokes  in  a  carpenter's  workshop ; 
that  had  raised  the  paralytic,  the  palsied,  and  the  four- 
days  dead ;  that  had  been  nailed  to  a  cross.  Light 
broke  in  upon  him,  and  it  was  almost  more  than  he 
could  bear;  as  when  the  door  of  a  prison  is  thrown 
open,  and  the  full  glory  of  the  middle  day  submerges 
the  quivering  prisoner.  Something  within  him  seemed 
to  melt  utterly  as  in  the  unspeakable  flame  of  knowl- 
edge that  was  too  great  a  joy.  He  caught  his  breath 
in  a  long,  low,  shaken  sob  as  a  man  might  upon  whom 
splendour  beyond  splendour,  stretching  into  infinity, 
breaks  in  one  heaven-wide   starry  arc.     He   bowed 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  247 

himself  until  his  forehead  all  but  touched  the  feet  his 
hands  reached  out  to  but  did  not  dare  to  clasp.  .  .  . 
Pain.  He  had  endured  it,  revolted  from  it,  fought 
it  with  set  teeth,  blasphemed  his  God  with  foam  on 
his  lips,  because  of  it.  .  .  .  And  his  God,  tattered  by- 
scourges,  had  carried  a  cross  from  the  Governor's 
palace  to  the  hill  of  executions,  had  been  nailed  against 
it,  and  had  hung  dying  for  three  hours.  ...  It  was 
the  path  by  which  Life  climbed  from  stage  to  stage 
of  its  ordained  upward  course — from  the  insensitive 
to  the  sensitive,  from  the  sensitive  to  the  conscious, 
from  the  conscious  to  the  self-conscious,  and  from 
the  self -consciousness  to  the  consciousness  of  God. 
And  now  .  .  .  God  Himself  had  walked  that  path 
that  men  might  understand.  And  He  had  walked  it 
as  a  man,  born  of  a  woman — work- weary,  footsore, 
misunderstood,  denounced,  abused,  betrayed,  maligned, 
scourged,  crucified,  abandoned  in  that  last  hour  even 
by  His  own  divinity  that  He  might  taste  that  ultimate 
human  desolation  that  is  worse  than  death.  Like  an 
infinite  cataract  of  jewels  the  sorrows  of  the  world 
shone  now — the  million  steps  of  that  long  stair  by 
which  the  ever-growing  spirit  ascends  towards  eternal 
perfection;  where  all  loves  and  aspirations  and  soul- 
hungers  meet  in  the  burning  rose-heart  of  uncreated 
Love.  .  .  .  The  nation  that  had  looked  for  the  coming 
of  a  God-man  had  fed  itself  with  shallow  and  gaudy 
thoughts  of  visible  conquest,  vast  hoards  of  white  and 
yellow  metal,  and  pageants  of  purple  and  gold.  But 
the  God-man  had  come  dusty- footed  in  the  raiment 
of  the  common  people,  treading  with  them  the  path 
they  trod — the  ordained  path,  the  only  path  to  joy — ■ 
the  Path  of  Pain.  .  .  .  Only  through  pain  can  man 
— and  with  him  all  creation — reach  from  the  lower  to 


248  REVELATION 

the  higher.  It  is  the  jewelled  stairway  whose  first 
step  rests  on  the  primal  slime  and  whose  heights  are 
lost  in  that  pure,  molten  glow  where  agony  kisses  the 

lips  of  rapture  and  the  two  become  one \nd 

the  brows  of  God  Himself  bear  the  scars  of  a  crown 
of  thorns. 

As  David,  shaken  by  the  low  sob  of  joy,  bowed 
himself  at  the  feet  of  the  Promised  One  who  had 
died  as  man  and  risen  as  God,  he  was  not  aware  of 
any  voice  that  spoke  to  him.  Truth  itself — certainty, 
vision,  attainment — bathed  him  like  light.  He  knew 
that  the  feet  his  hands  yearned  towards,  but  did  not 
touch,  bore  each  a  diamond-shaped  wound.  His  inner 
being  was  a  single  flame  of  worship  that  trembled  as 
a  flame  does.  .   .   . 

The  bird  that  had  hushed  its  voice  began  again  » 
sing.     And  David  knew  that  he  was  alone. 

He  rose  to  his  feet.  Everything  about  him  glittered 
as  though  powdered  with  gold-dust  in  the  arrowy 
radiance  of  the  morning.  He  knew  that  the  doorway 
of  the  garden  tomb,  a  score  of  steps  above  him,  . 
open  like  the  door  of  a  dwelling  that  has  been  aban- 
doned, its  great  stone  lying  upon  one  side;  and  that 
within  it  the  linen  bands  and  the  winding  sheet  lay 
like  a  cast-off  garment.  Death  was  a  name — and  even 
less  than  that.  .  .  .  There  was  light  about  him,  but 
the  light  within  him  dimmed  it.  Joy  ran  in  his  veins, 
lucid  as  crystal ;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  moved 
as  though  his  feet  were  winged — effortless,  buoyant, 
scarcely  conscious  of  his  body.  ...  A  spray  of 
almond-blossom  brushed  his  brows  as  he  bent  to  re- 
enter the  grotto. 

A  living  sheen  dwelt  on  Astarte's  wonderful  hair. 
Her  limbs  had  not  yet  begun  to  stiffen.    With  an  im- 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  249 

measurable  tenderness — almost  as  though  she  might 
waken  from  her  soft  sleep — David  touched  her  half- 
lowered  eyelids,  closing  them.  .  .  .  He  understood 
everything  now.  She  was  a  child — lovely,  loving, 
reckless,  ignorant — wholly  innocent  of  that  open-eyed 
rebellion  which  alone  is  sin.  She  had  loved  him  to  the 
limit  of  her  child-nature.  .  .  .  She  would  understand 
many  things  when  they  met  again,  and  his  love  for 
her  was  as  undying  as  his  very  self. 

He  bent  and  touched  her  brow  with  his  lips.  The 
perfume  of  musk  still  hovered  about  her.  .  .  .  Per- 
haps, even  at  that  moment,  she  knelt  again  at  the  feet 
of  Him  who  had  forgiven  her,  protecting  her  even 
from  the  punishment  of  men.  It  would  be  very  sweet 
to  take  her  hands  where  there  was  no  parting  any 
more,  nor  doubt,  nor  inevitable  betrayal.  .  .  .  She 
also  had  suffered — as  a  child  might,  treading  the  ap- 
pointed path.  .  .  .  "Good-night,"  he  said  within  him- 
self, "for  a  little  while."  And  he  kissed  the  undimmed 
brightness  of  her  hair. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  grotto  was  the  stone  that 
should  seal  it  when  a  man  or  woman  was  laid  therein. 
David  rolled  this  stone  forward,  and  the  burial-place 
of  Astarte  was  secure. 

The  unseen  bird  sang  on,  full-throated.  Insects 
chirped.  .  .  .  David  went  downward  through  the 
garden — downward  towards  the  camel-path.  White 
and  green  mists  encompassed  him — leaf  and  blossom. 
The  pale  stars  of  flowers  studded  the  path  of  his 
feet;  and  to  his  hearing  they  sang  together  like  the 
stars  of  morning  when  the  first  dawn  stood  on  the 
threshold  of  new-created  Time.  Life  resurgent — 
deathless,  triumphant — thrilled  in  the  sap-channel, 
pulsed   in   the   thrumming  undernote   of   insect  life, 


250  REVELATION 

throbbed    in    his    own    strong    yet    serene    pulses. 

In  the  camel-path  two  stood — Cymon,  his  friend, 
and  Rama,  the  younger  sister  of  Dinah.  Cymon's 
brilliant  eyes  were  curiously  fixed  and  widened ;  his 
lips  were  apart.  He  stood  like  a  person  struck  rigid 
by  catalepsy. 

"David!" 

It  was  Rama  who  spoke. 

Cymon  started — blinked.     He  turned  his  head. 

"David  .  .  ."he  said.  Then  he  began  to  speak 
rapidly.  "Gods!  I — I  think  I'm  sane,  David,  but  this 
— this  is  inconceivable.  .  .  .  Two  days  ago,  in  the 
city,  I  got  into  trouble  helping  a  scourged  man  they 
were  going  to  execute.  He  couldn't  stand — and  when 
he  fell  in  the  street  one  of  the  Romans  kicked  him.  I 
hit  the  fellow — knocked  him  over — and  helped  the 
other  man  up.  Then  they  arrested  me  and  put  me 
into  prison,  but  when  the  earthquake  came  the  door 
broke  open  and  I  got  out.  Some  of  the  houses  were 
falling,  so  I  came  here,  and  on  the  way  I  got  a  view 
of  the  execution  hill — you  know  ii — and  the  man  I'd 
helped  was  there — stiff  and  dead  on  his  cross.  .  .  . 
Well — just  now — I — I  saw  him,  David.  He  came 
down  this  path  and  stopped  not  more  than  a  foot  away 
from  me  and  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder — I  felt 
the  weight  of  it  just  as  I  should  feel  the  weight  of 
any  man's.  His  feet  were  bare,  and  I  saw  the  wounds 
on  them  where  the  nails  had  been  driven  through  them 
— and  the  wound  on  his  hand.  .  .  .  He  looked  straight 
at  me.  ...  I  couldn't  speak — I  couldn't  do  anything. 
.  .  .  He  was  flesh  and  blood,  David — like  you  and 
I.  .  .  .  And  then  he — he  was  gone.  .  .  .  Just  as  you 
see  a  flash  of  lightning  one  moment  and  the  next 
moment  it's  all  dark.  .   .   .  But  he  was  flesh  and  blood, 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  251 

David.  His  raiment  was  white,  and  where  the  light 
shone  through  it  at  the  edges  it  showed  the  colours 
of  an  opal.  ..." 

He  broke  off.  He  was  evidently  altogether  un- 
strung. .  .  .  David's  eyes,  steady  as  those  of  an 
archer  who  draws  his  bow  against  a  lion,  held  his 
now;  David  was  speaking,  and  even  if  he  had  been 
unwilling  he  could  not  have  chosen  otherwise  than 
listen.  .  .  .  Rama  was  listening  too.  She  had  drawn 
close.  She  gazed  at  David  as  at  one  touched  with 
the  transfiguring  fire  that  clothes  the  strong  spirits 
who  are  the  agents  and  messengers  of  God.  But  it 
was  Cymon  in  whose  shadow  she  seemed  to  shelter 
herself,  as  though  she  sought  instinctively  the  nearness 
of  a  person  human  even  as  she  was.  .    .   . 

Sweetly  came  the  tinkle  of  a  camel's  bell,  and  then 
the  crooning  monotone  of  the  rider,  carrying  that 
never-broken  under-thread  of  plaintive  hope  which 
from  the  first  has  surely  held  a  promise  and  a 
prophecy.  .    .    . 

In  the  streets  of  the  hill-city  men  were  vending 
fresh  loaves  of  barley-bread,  parched  ears  of  the  new 
crop,  and  all  manner  of  spring  vegetables,  for  the 
thanksgiving  barley-sheaf — reaped  overnight — had 
been  threshed,  winnowed,  and  ground  in  the  forecourt 
of  the  Temple.  Everyone  followed  the  rut  of  his  own 
affairs;  everyone  suffered  in  one  way  or  another; 
everyone  clutched  at  beauty  as  he  understood  it.  .  .  . 
None  gave  any  special  attention  to  the  three  who 
came  in  under  the  Damascus  Gate.  One  of  the  young 
men  had  his  arm  about  the  shoulders  of  the  other, 
speaking  to  him.  The  face  of  the  girl  wore  the  ex- 
pression of  a  child  to  whom  a  breathless  wonder-story 
has  been  told — a  story  in  which  the  ivory  gates  of  a 


252  REVELATION 

dream-surpassing  palace  open  with  a  sound  like  music. 
.  .  .  No  one  knew  that  they  were  on  their  way  to 
the  friends  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  whose  sepulchre  was 
in  a  near-by  garden  of  myrtles  and  of  almond-trees — 
empty. 

VII 

A  house-court  similar  to  that  of  Dinah  and  Naomi ; 
a  low  arch  giving  upon  the  street;  a  flight  of  steps 
leading  to  an  upper  room — but  above  each  of  the  sev- 
eral doorways  set  around  this  court  was  scratched,  as 
children  scratch  with  a  nail  on  a  stone  wall,  a  right- 
angled  symbol.     It  was  the  Sign  of  the  Cross. 

There  was  an  intermittent,  subdued  clatter  of  pots 
and  pans,  and  an  odour  of  cooking  food.  On  the 
lowest  step  of  the  short  flight  Rama  sat,  a  basket  of 
lentil-pods  beside  her,  and  in  her  lap  a  terra-cotta 
bowl  into  which  she  shelled  the  red  lentils.  Her  hands 
busied  themselves  without  a  pause.  The  lentils  were 
for  the  evening  meal  of  Abner,  the  husband  of  the 
woman  with  whom  she  lodged,  and  Joseph,  Abner's 
younger  brother,  and  Cymon,  who  worked  in  the  mar- 
kets all  day  and  slept  with  Joseph  on  the  house-top. 
As  she  shelled  the  lentils  her  narrow  shoulders  drooped 
as  though  a  burden  rested  upon  her. 

Someone  entered  the  court  from  the  street — Cymon. 
Rama  looked  up,  and  it  seemed  that  an  unuttered 
sound  was  on  her  lips.  He  came  straight  over  to  her. 
She  put  aside  the  basket  of  lentil-pods  and  set  the 
bowl  of  shelled  lentils  on  the  ground. 

"It's  true,"  said  Cymon.  "They've  taken  him.  It 
happened  last  night." 

Rama  said  nothing. 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  253 

"I've  seen  it  coming  for  weeks.  It's  been  gather- 
ing.   ..." 

"Where — where  is  David  now?" 

Rama's  two  hands  were  clutched  together  in  her  lap. 

"Before  the  Sanhedrin,  I  think.  He  was  in  one  of 
their  prisons  last  night.  .  .  .  They've  charged  him 
with  blasphemy,  of  course — speaking  against  the 
Temple  and  the  Law." 

"What — what  will  they  do  with  him,  Cymon?" 

"I  don't  know  what  power  they  have.  ...  In 
their  law  the  punishment  for  blasphemy  is  stoning." 

Without  a  word  Rama  bowed  herself  forward  until 
her  face  was  almost  hidden  on  her  knees.  Her  shoul- 
ders twitched.  She  was  weeping  quiveringly — con- 
sumingly. 

Cymon's  eyes  misted.  Immediately  he  sat  down  by 
her — raised  her — and  she  turned  her  face  to  him,  her 
head  resting  against  his  shoulder.  Her  tears  flowed 
helplessly.  His  free  hand  closed  over  both  of  hers, 
which  were  stained  with  the  sap  of  the  lentil-pods. 

"Rama  .  .  .  you  mustn't  be  unhappy.  I — I'm  his 
best  friend — I  love  him  better  than  any  brother — but 
I'm  not  grieving.  I'm  .  .  .  glad.  Because  he  will 
be  glad.  .  .  .  Once,  I  would  have  gone  out,  stolen  a 
sword,  and  killed  right  and  left  until  I  was  cut  down 
myself  if  anything  like  this  had  happened.  .  .  .  Rama, 
you  wouldn't  cry  if  a  runner  were  starting  out  on  a 
race  that  he  was  sure  to  win,  and  you  knew  that  the 
prize  was  more  magnificent  than  anything  in  the  world  ? 
.    .   .  And  we  know  that  there's  no  death." 

The  girl's  quivering  stilled.  The  tears  which 
suffused  her  eyes  ceased  to  flow.  Woman  through 
and  through,  she  must  draw  her  spiritual  vision,  her 
simple,   death-conquering    fortitude  always    from  the 


254  REVELATION 

man.  Gradually  a  wistful  and  unquestioning  tran- 
quility deepened,  like  a  luminous  shadow,  upon  her 
face. 

The  clatter  and  rattle  of  pots  and  pans  still  con- 
tinued. The  odour  of  cooking  food  had  strengthened, 
acquiring  a  more  definite  flavour.  The  two  were 
very  still.  ...  In  a  little  more  than  a  year  it  was 
written  that  Cymon's  child — her  firstborn — would  lie 
in  the  curve  of  Rama's  arm,  for  she  was  destined  to 
obey  him  as  a  wife,  to  bear  his  children,  and  to  tend 
the  fire  on  his  hearth  while  he  stood  between  her  and 
the  world.  And  it  was  also  written  that  they  two 
should  see  through  iron  bars  the  strong  sunlight  on 
the  sanded  floor  of  a  great  circus,  and  the  flicker  of 
innumerable  fans  where  the  people  sat  in  tiers  clear 
up  to  the  stretched  awning,  and  hear  the  sea-like  mur- 
mur of  blended  voices  and  the  muffled,  booming  roar 
of  the  lions  in  the  subterranean  dens.  And  on  that 
day  the  woman,  standing  in  the  circle  of  the  man's 
arms — listening  to  him  child-wise,   her   eyes   on   his, 

would  have  no  fear.  .    .    . 

*  *  *  *  * 

"Blasphemer !" 

"Enemy  of  God !" 

"Dog!" 

"Pig!" 

"Son  of  a  Gentile!" 

The  furious  voices  were  hoarse  and  raucous  as 
though  torn  from  exhausted  throats.  Dozens  of 
clenched  fists  were  shaken.  The  hinged  lattices  of 
hanging-windows  were  thrown  open  and  faces  peered 
down,  devoid  of  any  expression  save  curiosity.  A 
pretty,  curly-headed  child,  standing  on  a  doorstep, 
spat  gleefully  in  imitation  of   its  elders. 


THE  HILL  OF  THE  SKULL  255 

David's  body  stumbled,  reeled,  sustained  blows — 
swept  forward  like  a  branch  on  a  torrent.  .  .  .  His 
mind  poised  as  though  on  wide,  shining  wings,  the 
ever-broadening  flood  of  light  in  which  it  hung  deep- 
ening from  glory  to  glory.  .  .  .  This  was  the  battle 
he  had  dreamed  of  since  his  thirteenth  year — the  last, 
superhuman  combat.  Like  vain,  shrivelled  rose-leaves 
before  an  autumn  wind,  the  tinsel  triumphs  he  had 
pictured  in  the  days  that  were  gone,  eddied,  scattered, 
and  were  lost.  More  precious  than  any  tribute-rubies 
borne  by  a  king's  camels  from  the  farthest  East  were 
the  drops  of  blood  that  jewelled  the  Path  of  Pain  .  .  . 
the  Path  of  God.  And  loss  was  gain,  and  submission 
conquest,  and  death  Life.  .    .    . 

There  was  the  colonnade  where  he  had  mused  so 
often,  looking  down  on  the  market.  On  the  steps  of 
it  four  stood  together.  He  recognized  them.  There 
was  John,  and  Cymon,  and  Rama,  and  Simon  Bar- 
Jona,  who  was  known  to  them  all  as  Peter,  even  as  he 
himself,  David,  had  taken  the  new  name  of  Stephen 
to  signify  the  rebirth  of  the  spirit  that  had  dawned 
in  him  between  the  apple  and  almond  tress  of  a  garden. 
His  eyes  smiled  at  them,  steady  as  those  of  an  archer 
who  draws  his  bow  against  a  lion  ...  his  lips  were 
bleeding,  for  a  fist  had  struck  him  in  the  mouth.  But 
it  was  Cymon's  gaze  with  which  he  locked  his — as 
men  clasp  hands  at  parting — for  a  long  farewell 
moment.  .  .  .  The  heart  of  each  spoke  in  his  eyes — 
the  last  words  of  a  wordless,  deathless  friendship: 
"Until  we  meet  again.  ..."  And  then  the  colonnade 
was  gone. 

Now  the  Damascus  Gate  was  right  before  him.  .  .  . 
Now  the  unhindered  arch  of  the  sky,  blue  as  a  Persian 
turquoise,  bent  above  him.    Behind  him  was  the  city, 


256  REVELATION 

for  his  face  was  set  to  the  north.  There  was  the 
clear  tinkle  of  a  camel's  bell  and  the  crooning  song 
of  the  rider.  .    .    . 

They  were  binding  his  arms  to  his  sides  with  cords. 
...  A  wandering  air  caressed  his  temples.  It  was 
like  the  touch  of  light  fingers.  .   .    .  Astarte.  .    .    . 

Now  they  were  standing  from  him,  stripping  off 
their  striped  outer  garments  to  give  their  hand  free 
play.  .  .  .  The  ever-broadening,  ever-deepening  light 
in  which  his  steadfast  consciousness  poised  as  a  flying 
silver  swan  might  seem  to  poise  in  the  mid-glory  of 
the  sunset  approached  with  smooth,  winged  swiftness 
some  transcedent  climax.  .  .  .  Beauty  beyond  beauty, 
wave  beyond  wave  of  living  rapture.  .  .  .  Was  it 
possible  to  bear  it?  .  .  .  Were  the  golden,  imperish- 
able laurels  of  the  victor  even  then  about  his  brows  ? 
Oh.  victory,  victory!   .    .    . 

The  first  great  stone  had  been  cast. 

The  End 


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